


The Glorious Crackfic Wednesday

by lucky_spike



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Crack, Drabble, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:32:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 69
Words: 61,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Wednesday, I open my tumblr ask box up to crackfic prompts. I take 7, and I write them, regardless of what they are.</p><p>These are those stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. what if two dies from alternate timelines put the same pin in at once

As Spades Slick brought the knife down, Die flinched away and jabbed a pin in at random.

Four miles and five timelines away, some idiot had decided it was a good idea to let Itchy drive. As the car careened toward the pole, Die seized a pin from his hat and stabbed the doll, not particularly caring which pin he’d pulled.

The hands of the universe aligned.

Die blinked in face of … Die. Himself. “Uh,” he said, and he rather wished he’d picked something more elegant. Too bad his nerves were far too frayed for elegance.

“Er,” the other him said.

They stared at one another, dolls held in front of themselves like gladiator shields. “This is awkward,” the other Die said then, just as Die was beginning to frame the words in his throat.

“Agreed.”

“I know.”

“S-Should one of us l-leave?”

“I - I would rather not go back to the flaming wreckage quite yet.” He looked to his doll. “Perhaps in a bit.”

“And I’d like to g-give Slick the time to clear out.” Silence again. “D-Did someone let Itchy drive?”

“How did you know?”

A worried, timid smile crept in around the corners of his mouth. “I d-didn’t. B-But it’s always a bad idea to g-give Itchy the keys.”

“I’ve always - always thought so.”

“I know.”

Die cocked his head. “Do … do you know what I’m thinking right now?”

“I w-was just wondering that m-myself.”

“I suppose … Suppose that answers that.”

The other Die nodded, squoze his doll, and then looked up. His expression wasn’t appreciably different to the layman, but if anyone knew Die, it was Die. Mischief sparkled in his eyes. “You kn-know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

Die grinned broadly - a feeble, frightened expression, but as close to genuine joy as he ever managed. “Of course.”

The best part, the Dies decided, about dancing with yourself is that you needn’t choreograph anything; you knew what you were going to do. Same with the singing.

“Cause this is _thriller_ ,” they harmonized, lurching around the room they’d found themselves in upon appearing, skirting Trace’s dead body. “ _Thriller night_.”

“And no one’s gonna save you from the beast about to strike,” one of the Dies sang, spinning in place.

“You’re fighting for your life inside a killer, thriller _tonight_!”

Snowman materialized outside the room, all the better to have a quiet smoke. She’d just struck the match when the commotion from behind the door registered. She didn’t say anything - and God help her she never would - but her eyes widened, she stared at the door as the Dies sang about creatures creeping up behind, and the match fizzled out in her fingers, unlit cigarette on her lips.

She vanished before they could really get rolling on the second chorus.


	2. Snowman/Sleuth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now requesting Sleuth and Snowman with her being a bit stymied by him and where he differs from Slick" - Path

She wasn’t sure why she thought this would be a good idea. She suspected it might have been the VO talking, or maybe the fact that he was looking especially respectable tonight in his freshly-cleaned trenchcoat, when she’d spotted him across the bar at her favorite wine house, but either way she’d ended up letting him walk her home, despite the fact that she didn’t even _need_ to be walked home.

But she supposed it was worth it, to let him feel like a gentleman.

She didn’t get a lot of opportunity to be around gentlemen, despite being the only adult without a Y chromosome at Felt mansion, and despite her long-term relhatesionship with Spades Slick. There were precisely 3 members of the Felt that she would even consider applying the word to, and two of them were busy being gentlemanly to one another. And a kismesisitude was no call for gentlemanly behavior. It didn’t exclude it, of course, but it didn’t demand it either.

She was having trouble with it. When Sleuth ducked by her to open the door on the way out of the bar, she jumped aside out of surprise, almost expecting him to pull a knife. But he just pulled the door open and motioned for her to walk through. She almost blinked - _almost_ \- but she’d been a Queen, so she flashed him a thin smile and walked through the door with her head high and her shoulders thrown back. And then, once outside, he offered her his arm. She only hesitated for a millisecond, but the Queen thing was like riding a bike, really …

He let her direct the conversation the entire way home. He didn’t swear, he had his lighter out and to her cigarette before her hand had got halfway to her pocket, he asked if she was warm enough, was there anything she needed …

He was the perfect gentleman. He was everything, she thought, Spades Slick wasn’t. The only time Slick had opened a door for her was when they’d been too busy kissing and she’d used his shoulder blades to grind into the handle and push the door open. He swore incessantly, if creatively. He had given her his arm, sure, but it hadn’t been _offered_ as such, and he sure as hell had never cared if there was anything she’d needed.

No wonder Slick liked him so much; opposites attract, after all.

They chatted up the street to the mansion, along the length of the driveway, and she stopped him behind the high hedges, twenty yards from the front door. “I’m afraid we can’t go farther than this, Problem Sleuth; I’d hate for you to draw anyone’s attention.”

“Of course,” he agreed, nodded and smiling. “I understand.” She held out a hand, and he took it, kissed it with a smile. “It was nice talking to you.”

“And you as well - I’ve heard so much about you from out mutual contact.” She raised an eyebrow and one corner of her green-painted lips. “He never mentioned you were such a gentleman, though.”

Sleuth paused, and then laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah … ahaha. Can’t imagine what else he’d have talked about …”

“Oh,” she said, grabbing the front of his trench, “I think you can.” She leaned in. “I’m told you have _such_ a good imagination.”

She closed the gap, kissed him experimentally, firm but passive, waiting for him to make the first move. He didn’t, and for a moment she worried that perhaps the wine and the VO had made her misjudge, but then she remembered that she never misjudged a man. He kissed back, his mouth opening a little. She took advantage, slipped her tongue in between his perfectly normal human teeth - not genetically-engineered fangs - and threw one arm around his neck.

Opposites indeed. Kissing Slick was like kissing a cutlery drawer in an earthquake: sharp and jittery and unpredictable. He would nip, and bite, and twist around, try to rush things, squirm against her body, and sometimes try to slide a hand up under her coat. But Sleuth, Sleuth was slow and considerate and kept his hands in appropriate places and was just so much different from Slick …

It was lovely, and a little part of her ached when she pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. Greenish brown. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this,” he reflected.

“I don’t think it’s cheating if we’re both cheating on the same person. It’s just a threesome he missed.” She smirked.

“… Interesting way of thinking about it, certainly. Er.”

She put her thumb on his chin, that little tuft of blonde beard that had gone a long way toward making him look older than your average highschooler, once upon a time. Now the streaks of gray hair and the lines on his face served the same purpose, but he’d kept the goatee.

Problem Sleuth. Gentleman, detective, great kisser.

Spades Slick. Horrible person, mobster, violently impatient lay.

“Thank you for the lovely evening,” she said, readjusting his hat and smiling tightly. “I look forward to seeing you around town.” She caught his expression, a little worried. “It really was great,” she assured him, patting him on the chest and then, because he really _was_ a good kisser, leaning into him once more, just for a second. “Goodnight, Problem Sleuth.”

She walked up the driveway, hips swaying, and faded halfway to the door, reappearing in her apartment. She felt perhaps a little sad that she and Sleuth would never work, and that Slick clearly wasn’t using his relationship with the man as a learning experience, but c’est la vie.

It could never work because Sleuth was a perfect gentleman, and he treated her like a lady - a Queen, even. And Snowman was determined - _dead set and determined_ \- to not be a Queen anymore.

Slick, for all his flaws, treated her like a rival gangster; just some broad that got the jump on him more often than not. Slick didn’t treat her like a Queen - never had, even when she’d been Queen. He met her and used her and they parted ways. And that was why Snowman - not the Black Queen, never that woman again - could never carry on with Problem Sleuth.

Which didn’t mean, she assured herself, as she slipped on her silk nightshirt and laid down in bed, that she couldn’t ask Sleuth to have a word with Slick about the kissing thing. A few lessons, she mused, thinking back, would certainly not go amiss.


	3. Kanaya+Karkat, confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "in which kanaya is displeased and confronts karkat about their sleuth/stabparents" - Sannam

“Karkat, I need to speak with you. It is urgent.” Karkat looked up from his pudding cup and to Kanaya, mildly disapproving expression and all. “In private.”

“Ooooh, Kanaya and Karkat’s pale moirallegiance is shifting to red!” Vriska teased, leaning around John to waggle her eyebrows at Karkat. “You guys need some _tips_?”

Karkat scowled and stood, abandoning the rest of his lunch. “Shut up Vriska.”

“Let us abscond to the Alcove,” she said quietly, as they wove through the lunch tables. The Alcove was a darkened corner of the cafeteria, behind the vending machines, kept free of dustbunnies by charitably-minded students and urgent make-out sessions. One of which, they found, was actively in progress. Kanaya put her hands on her hips and glared down at Sollux and Aradia. “ _Out_ ,” she snapped.

After the Alcove had been vacated by the flushed pair, Kanaya yanked Karkat into the dark and leaned in. “ _What_ ,” she asked urgently, “were you thinking letting your father out last night.”

“… What?” Kanaya glared. “ _I_ let _him_ out?! Please! As if I have any control over the man whatsoever, he does whatever the hell he wants. Why? D’he accidentally knife your dad up again?”

She scowled. “Not quite.”

“So why do you care?” Karkat leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms.

“Karkat, this morning I encountered your father at my breakfast table,” she said, and all the color drained from Karkat’s face. “I will spare you the details of his and my father’s state of dress, such as it was.”

“Ew.”

“Naturally I was able to make the necessary connections fairly quickly,” she went on, as Karkat went a little green, “and having reached the disturbing conclusion that our parents have decided to engage in a relationship that I am concerned is based completely on s -“

“ _OH GOD KANAYA NO._ ”

“On … physical relations,” she amended, when Karkat swayed dangerously and she had to prop him back up against the wall, “I confronted your father regarding his intentions. I will not see my father become anyone’s casual hookup.”

“STOP KANAYA.”

“And do you know what he told me, Karkat?” She leaned in until his rapidly-blurring visual field comprised little else but her face. “He told me _basket weaving_. Which is a blatant lie if ever I heard one.” Her frown deepened. “Now, as your moirail, I assure you that you will be able to rely on me in all situations of emotional angst, however I _cannot_ guarantee our future good feelings toward one another if you do not keep a firmer handle on your parent.” She stepped back and crossed her arms. “I will not tolerate a casual physical relationship.”

“Ew,” he said faintly, swaying forward once more. “Just … ew.”

As it turned out, the Alcove’s floor got a more thorough dusting that day, the lumps of old Doritos and dirt clinging to Karkat’s shirt as Kanaya dragged her unconscious moirail away.


	4. Jadesprite+Lord English, dress-up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Crowbar <3 Matchsticks play dress-up or Jadesprite Lord English play dress-up.? I have a lot of crack up my sleeve. That sounded weird." - Lemonbubble

Jadesprite<>Lord English play dress up

The TARDIS roared out of the vortex and lurched down atop a low hill, blanketed with snow and spotted with hibiscus and sweet-smelling strange flowers that, despite all appearances as otherwise beautiful flora of a long-forgotten island, had quite the taste for human flesh.

The blue door swung in and Lord English - demon, time traveler, Bringer of the End and three time Albanian billiards champion - stepped out of the box. “Just be a mo’, dear,” he called, before closing the door with a snap. He looked around. “Yes, land of Frost and Frogs. Lovely.” He pulled a list - crinkled a folded - out of one of his psychedelic coat’s pockets and consulted it. “Hm, flour, yes, breadcrumbs, garlic, yes yes, ah, right, six frog legs.” He folded the list back up and set off through the snow, looking around idly for possible victims. “Frost and frogs, can’t be that hard to find the latter; there’s certainly plenty of the former,” he murmured.

“A- _boo hoo_ ,” something said through the trees. English stopped and spun towards it. “ _Boo hoo hoo_.”

“What?” Frost and Frogs, yes, he should have landed far enough to avoid the little girl here … But then, what was this? Cautiously, he crept through the trees, lime green shoes crunching in the snow.

When he finally found her, she was floating in a small grove of trees and bushes, her long green tail waving behind her as she cried into her hands. “ _BOO HOO HOO HOO,”_ she wailed. Lord English paused, and then decided if he could end the universe he could probably console a crying protoyped sprite. He stepped up behind her, and leaned around, roughly entering her field of vision.

“Er. Hello.” She jumped, startled, and then caught sight of him. Behind the foggy, smudged glasses, her eyes traveled up and down him, his coat, his hat with the flickering billiard ball on it, and she burst into fresh tears. “Something have you upset then?”

She took a deep breath, opened her mouth as if to speak, and let loose an ungodly wail. Lord English flinched back, and then steeled himself. “Go on, maybe you’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

“I - I _was with my friends_ ,” she sobbed. “I was with my friends and then she took me away from them!”

“Ah.” A lesser person wouldn’t have understood, but this was English’s universe, this was his game. He knew the prototyping, and he could surmise what had come to pass. “Snatched out of the dream bubble?”

“ _Yes_!” She glared at him, eyes flashing, lower lip shaking, her ears laid flat back against her head. “How - How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” he lied. “But surely it’s not all bad - someone needs your help! Someone was close enough to you to want you to come back and help them, so it’s not as though you’re away from _all_ of your friends.”

The tears started afresh. “It was _me_ that called me back! My not-dream self!”

“Oh.” He thought for a minute. Then he brightened, and took her ectoplasmic paw-hand in his. “Hey, I’ve an idea. Come with me.” As he lead her back to the Tardis, he explained his basic plan, and listened as her tears subsided. “Sometimes when people are very sad, they need to cry. And that’s alright, nothing wrong with crying. But, when you’ve cried all you can cry, and you’re still doing it just because you don’t know what else to do, sometimes you need to do something else.”

“Like, like what?” she asked, shakily. Her green cheeks glistened with greener tears as she caught sight of the Tardis. “What’s this box?”

“It’s my spaceship. Well, not mine, but a friend’s.” He pushed the door open, and the console was blessedly empty. If the Doctor knew he’d started bringing home weeping prototyped kernelsprites he’d never hear the end of it. “Sometimes, when a person is very sad, and doesn’t know what else to do,” he explained, gently, leading her up the stairs, “I’ve found it helps to do something completely silly.”

She gasped when she saw the wardrobe, sprawling out in front of her through every possibly twist and turn permissible by physics. “Oh, gosh.”

“Yes,” he said, bent over a steamer trunk. “Anything you’d like, anything in the whole universe, right here!” And then he stood back up, and Jadesprite burst into helpless giggles.

“That hat,” she concluded, “is completely silly.”

He flipped one of the hat’s errant banana peels out of his eyes and handed her a fascinator decked out with little ceramic ponies running around a fluffy felt track. “As is this one,” he said solemnly. She took it from him, giggling even more now, and nestled it in her thick green hair, careful of her ears.

“We look ridiculous,” she laughed. He simply smiled and held out his hand once more.

“Shall we endeavor to complete the ensemble?”

She paused, and he could see the grief welling up again, but he flashed a smile and she managed one back, before looking back to his hat and shaking her head. “Yes. Yes I think we shall.”

An hour or so later - time was always uncertain inside the Tardis - the Doctor ran across them when he heard them laughing. He popped his head in, took one look at the scene and ducked back out, expression momentarily stiff before he sighed and relaxed into a smile. “Bloody drag queen,” he muttered fondly. “And his silly stray ghost dog girls.”


	5. Spades Slick, pick-up lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Spades Slick picking up several separate members of the Midnight City cast with the worst pick-up lines ever. Bonus if they’re the lines Eddie Izzard uses after 3:30 in this segment (http://youtube.com/watch?v=t0j3L1sLoMM) I’m picturing him drunk off his ass and stumbling up to Felt Manor just to knock on the door and say “G’devening Snowman. I’ve… I’ve got legs.”" - Path

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are exactly 15 years, 7 months and 8 days old. And you have just received a distress call from the Alternian Bar and Grill.

“Kid, you gotta come get your dad,” said Diamonds Droog, and even though the man hardly ever wavered from the strictly level countenance, you picked up just a hint of a slow slur. They’d been drinking then.

Fantastic.

So you get in the car and drive over to ABG and wait outside for your dad to remember how a door works and then, almost immediately afterwards, how to stand up after the pavement apparently leaps up to greet him in excitement. You roll your eyes and wonder how Child Protective Services has never caught wind of this, although another part of you is sort of entertained by the proceedings. You don’t smile while Slick stares blankly at the door handle on his car, but it’s a near thing.

“Bad day?” you ask, when he finally manages to get into the car. He pats you on the head, fondly, you think, and thankfully with his left arm, which isn’t made out of titanium and carbon fiber.

“Nah,” he discounts. And then hiccups. You sigh and drive off. “Jus’ … fuckin’ …” he trails off, and then finally turns so he can see you. “You still … fuck, what, uh, single?”

You blink and stop at a red light, all the better to stare at him. “ _What_?”

He’s crumpled up in the seat, in a position that cannot possibly be comfortable for a normal person, and he’s flashing that sharkey smile at you. God, he’s really drunk. “‘Fter that … _bitch_ ’s kid dumped you,” he manages. “You ne’er got …” he looks out the windshield for a second and you wonder if he’s forgotten what he was talking about. “‘Nother girlfriend. S’not right.” The last was said with firm conviction.

You don’t say anything, because that seems safest. Instead you start driving as soon as the light turns green, and shrug. “Wha’ you _need_ ’s … some, uh, some _lines_. F’r the ladies.”

It dawns on you what he’s getting at here, and you bite back a laugh. “Pickup lines?”

“S’right!”

“Dad, you’re fucking awful at any kind of witty dialogue whatsoever,” you point out, reasonably.

“No, no, _no_ nono _no_.” He stretches out, and his shoe bumps your leg. You shove him back to his side of the car. “S’not jokes. ‘S … diff’rent. Dames’re … _mysterious_. You gotta use … word magic ‘n shit.” His shoe nudges you again, and you shove him over again. “S’you see a girl, righ’, whaddaya say t’her?”

You sigh and debate ignoring him. But, well, you’re fifteen blocks from home and there’s nothing better to do. He probably won’t even remember this tomorrow. “I uh, I ask her how she is. And then I talk about something she likes -“

“ _Wrong_.” You stop short, and he glares at you out of his one unfocused eye. “You talk abou’ … about bullshit you got _in common_.” He thinks, and you can almost see the synapses misfiring through the alcohol sloshing through his system. “Like … Uh. Legs.”

“Legs.”

“Yup. S’you say, like, ah, uh.” He pauses for thought again, and you’re already snickering. “I’ve got legs! S’a good one, fucking everyone’s got legs.”

“Not everyone, Dad.”

“Yeah-huh.”

“So what if someone walked up to you and said they had arms?”

Slick glared. “Fuck off.” He sighed heavily and slid off the seat, under the dashboard. You let him. “A’right so … so only fuckin’ use that one f’she’s got … legs. Uh. Otherwise. Oh, fuck, yes, ask if she likes bread.” You hit the brakes for a stopped car and he falls completely onto the floor. His enthusiasm about his sudden genius bread-related revelation, though, is undampened, and somehow he manages to get back into the seat. “ _Everyone_ likes bread, Karkat. ‘Ven fuckin’ … Snowman. Likes. Likes French shit. Crusty or some bullshit.”

“French loaves?”

“Whatever. S’you gotta be like, ‘sup lady. I got legs. You like bread?’ Boom, you’re fucking _in_.”

You’ve never been so happy to turn onto your street, not because you’re embarrassed but because had your guardian come out with that line while you were on a main road you might have caused a major traffic accident due to being incapacitated with laughter. You manage to park the car, somehow, and lean back in the driver’s seat and laugh good and hard for a long time. Slick is apparently disgusted by your total disrespect for this wisdom, and he manages to fumble the door open and stumble to the stairs.

When you’re good and done, you close the car up and help the man up off the steps, half-carrying him to the front door. You’re taller than him now - have been for a couple years - so you’re sort of awkwardly hunched over, but it’s a small price to pay for not having to call Droog up over a head injury again. You don’t think you could watch another neurological exam where both parties are trashed; not without rupturing some major organ with stifled laughter.

“You fucking laugh,” Slick grumbled, as the door swung open, “but it _works_.”

“‘Cause you just wake up covered in bitches every day, Dad.” You steer him through the house, and decide his bed’s probably the better option.

“Just ‘cause … fuck you, Karkat.” He slips out of your hold and manages to stagger the last few steps to his bed, before collapsing face-first into the mattress. “Worked on … on Problem Sleuth.”

“Yeah? You asked him if he liked bread and he jumped all over you?” you smirk, leaning on the door.

“ _No_.” Slick rolled halfway over onto his back and frowned. “Asked him … ‘bout somethin’. Maybe bread. ‘N then …” he smiled. “Then I punched ‘im in the eye. _An’ then_ he jumped all over me.”

“Actually, I think that’s when you idiots got arrested for being drunk and disorderly,” you point out.

“Whatever. Still fuckin’ worked.”

You sigh and swing the door closed, throwing the man and his bed into darkness. “I’ll leave the aspirin by the coffee maker.”

“Good boy.”


	6. HD/Bro, Sleuth finds out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If the carckfic prompts are still open, I'd like a bro/dame fic, with Problem Sleuth finding out and freaking out about it. Not really a crackfic, I know, since it's your headcanon, but hey, I wanna see how those two work :P" - Anon

“‘Sup, lady.” He greets her outside her restaurant, same sunglasses and t-shirt as always, and she throws her arms around him. They kiss, and she actually takes his hand as they start walking away.

Your name is Problem Sleuth, and this is how you find out your sister is dating Midnight City’s most sicknasty ill beatmaster. And you are not happy about it.

“Hey!” you shout, and step out into the light of the lamppost. “The hell’s going on here?”

HD and DJ Durty Dedsmup2 - more colloquially known as Bro - turned around, him throwing his arm around her shoulders as they did. You are shouting. “What the fuck is this? _This_ asshole, Dame? _What_? How long has this been going on?” Bro steps forward and suddenly there’s a katana at your throat. You roll your eyes, instead of shutting up. “Please, one fucking katana? See, Dame, this is what I’m talking about - this guy’s fucking ridiculous!”

“Problem Sleuth,” she says, a little shrilly, but no less determined for it, “how dare you try to tell me what kinda guy I can step out with!” She’s next to Bro in a flash, her shaking hands around his bicep. “What do you even know’a this guy, huh?”

You falter, because she has a point, even though she’s your little sister and as far as you’re concerned she’s still nine years old and only allowed to date boys who you’ve had the chance to interview extensively first. The fact that you yourself are in your late forties and she is closing in on forty herself has nothing to do with it. “He’s … he’s a DJ and he’s got this weird thing for …” You trail off, and then cross your arms and step back from the sword at your throat. “What do you even have in common?” you snap, finally.

Bro smirks, and Dame goes off on you. “None of yours, Sleuth! You’re so stinkin’ _nosy_. Like I said, I can see who I like, and you ain’t got a say in it.” She almost sticks her tongue out at you - you catch her stopping it right before it happens. “But if you gotta know he likes stuffed animals too, and he’s got a lotta swords.”

“She’s got a sweet teddy bear that turns into a knife,” Bro points out. And then they smile at one another.

“Anyway,” she says, suddenly scowling again as she looks back at you. “That’s all you’re gonna know, Sleuth, since you’re so dang rude about it.” She snorts. “More’n you an’ that _mobster_ have in common, anyway,” she adds with a smirk, right before they turn to leave. “See you around.”

You watch them go, and you seethe. She’s your little sister, and you hate it when she’s right.


	7. Derse Agents, Earth AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dersite Agents, Earth AU"

Your name is Jack Noir, and you are twenty-four years, four months, two weeks, three days, eighteen hours, seven minutes and forty-five seconds old. And you are currently jerking awake in a cold sweat, half-screaming in the dark of your bedroom, for the third time this week.

Your name is Jack Noir, and you have _horrible_ nightmares.

Your clock tells you it’s just after midnight, so it’s not that late. Your mind is still racing, and you are still shaking, and you can still almost feel the sword through your chest. You grab your cell phone and hit the speed dial.

“You better be dead or dying.” You almost sigh as relief courses through your system.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you mutter. Your dog, alerted to your sudden return to the realm of the waking, jumps on your bed and aggressively kisses your face.

There’s a long silence, and then your friend sighs into the phone. “You have another nightmare again?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re not real, Jack. You don’t have to call me every time you murder figments of your life’s anxieties in your subconscious.” There’s a crunch, and when he talks again his mouth sounds full. “I’m specializing in general surgery, dude, not psych.”

“Fuck you, Dan, I know they’re not real.” You rub your dog behind the ears and take a breath. “But they don’t … Dude, I _know_ what a normal dream’s like, you know? And this ain’t it.”

“You’re not psychic, crazy. Exhausted, maybe. I’m telling you, you need therapy.”

“The fuck is therapy gonna do for dreams?”

“I dunno.”

You sigh again and look out your window, through the slits in the blinds. “Why’re you still up?”

“Studying.” You can hear an explosion.

“Liar.”

There’s a long pause, and you can hear Dan swear under his breath. “You gonna go back to sleep?”

“Probably not. I can’t murder any more kids tonight.”

“Good, leave the adorable manifestations of everything that causes you angst alone and get on Halo.”

“You’re an asshole, Dan.”

“Listen, as long as we’re both fucking insomniacs we might as well pwn some noobs, alright? Same server as always. Be there.” The line goes dead.

You stare at your phone for a second before you disentangle yourself from your sheets and curse as you stumble out of bed for your living room and your blessed X-box. “Fucking asshole.”


	8. Droog+Slick, Neurological Exam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "for the next round of crackfic prompts: 'You don’t think you could watch another neurological exam where both parties are trashed' Another? Do tell, Karkat!" - trexila

The night had been going fairly well, considering. Sure, you’d had to go pick your dad up from the bar again because he was too drunk to walk straight, much less locate his own home without help, and sure, the cops had pulled you over for blowing through a stop sign, and yeah, you’d had to use your fake ID, but that was minor. Slick had even been quiet for the drive, which was something that was not to be overlooked.

Trouble had started on the stairs. It was like having an infant, you thought, when you turned around and Slick was just writhing on the ground and clutching at a gash in his head that was spurting truly astounding amounts of blood. You just loaded him back up in the car and drove straight to Droog’s place, because that was what the Crew did. Hospitals were for the innocent.

You should have gone to the hospital anyway when Aradia opened the door and saw you standing there, your hand under your dad’s arm, and sighed, “I’ll get Daddy up.” That would have been the wise, responsible thing to do. It also would have been the boring thing to do.

Droog was trashed, which was never anything to be missed, because Droog drunk was Droog without the same uptight manner that practically made him Droog. And he was trying to perform a neurological examination on your dad, who appeared to be largely unscathed save for the head wound.

“You think we should stop them?” Aradia muttered to you, her arms crossed and a smile on her face.

“Look how much fun they’re having, though,” you snort, when Droog produces a penlight out of his coat and shines it directly into Slick’s eye.

“You’re pupil’s … s’good.” Droog nodded. “Doin’ the shrinky thing. Good.” He stuck the penlight into his mouth and lifted the eyelid on Slick’s bad eye. “This one’s not as good,” he said around the light, frowning at the uneven edges and milky whiteness of the man’s wrecked iris. “S’not even the righ’ color.” He let go of Slick’s face and the eyelid drooped back closed again. “You’re … s’a _stroke_ ,” he said.

“You fucking idiot, I only got the one eye,” Slick slurred, steadfastly holding the dishtowel filled with ice against the slice in his scalp. “S’always this way, stupid.”

“Oh. Tha’s … alright then.” Droog flopped onto the couch next to Slick and looked over at him. “C’n you feel everything?”

“I feel _fan-fucking-tastic_ ,” Slick said, and then he actually giggled, which you would have sworn was impossible, and slouched into Droog. “M’brain feels great.”

Droog patted him on the head, while you and Aradia firmly refused to look at one another, for fear of totally losing control and laughing until you both cried. “Prob’ly didn’ even bump it. There’s … lotsa exta room in there, ‘d imagine.”

“You’re an asshole.” Slick showed his teeth for half a second, before curling up next to Droog and closing his eye. “G’night, Dickface.”

“G’night, midget.”

You and Aradia make it all the way upstairs before you dissolve into helpless laughter, wheezing and howling and snorting and gasping for air, laying on the floor and trying to stifle it as much as you can while your lungs scream for air. You laugh until you cry, and until you literally can’t breathe, and then she rolls onto her belly and gets up and staggers to her room, still wracked with giggles, and you stumble into the guest room and sink into the sopor with one last snicker and a grin.


	9. Spades Slick, Jack Noir nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "basically slick has nightmares about jack noir, and karkat finds out." - Anon

Your dads all have nightmares. You don’t know what about because they never tell you, but you all know it happens, because you all hear about them. Sollux has heard Clubs up at nights, pacing and dithering and worrying. Aradia won’t hear anything, but she’ll find Droog in the recliner in the morning, sound asleep and exhausted. Hearts thrashes until he wakes himself up, and Tavros hears the choked-off scream. Slick just builds up, starting with almost canine whimpering and ending up jerking awake, screaming.

You wake up one night next to him, huddled on the far sides of his bed at the hideout. You had to crash there because one of the other gangs in the city made some threat or something, and Slick didn’t want you at home. You’re pissed, because there’s just the one bed in each room and Aradia’s the only girl so she gets the couch. So you have to share with your dad, but so do Sollux and Tavros, which makes it a little more bearable. That, and Slick is actually decent at staying on his side of the bed when he’s sober.

He’s whining, and at first it takes you a minute to figure out what the noise is. You look over and see him curled up around a pillow.

“Dad?” you whisper. You put your hand out to shake him, but isn’t there something about not waking people up when they’re having a nightmare? Or, fuck, was that sleepwalking? You can never remember.

He’s talking but it’s disoriented, not coherent or anything, but you hear a familiar name and your heart stops for a beat. And then he’s grabbing at his chest like there ought to be something there.

Fuck it, you’re waking him up. You kick him.

He’s up in a half-second, and there’s a knife at your throat almost before he gets his eye open. “It’s me,” you say, hands raised, because it’s dark and you’re not sure how well-oriented he is right now.

“Oh.” You can see his teeth flash in a sneer even in the darkness of the room. “The fuck did you kick me for?”

“You were freaking out, Dad, Jesus.” You flop back down, your back to him, and pull the covers over you. “One of your stupid piece of shit nightmares or something.”

“Watch your mouth,” Slick grumbles, and the mattress squeaks as he follows your lead.

You close your eyes, but you can’t quite get to sleep. “Is it always the same nightmare?” you ask, because you’re certain he’s not asleep either.

For a minute you think you might have been wrong, because he doesn’t answer. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” You don’t know what else to ask, because you’re pretty sure he won’t tell you anyway. You’ve always assumed the nightmares were about Derse shit, and he _never_ talks about Derse shit with you. As far as you’re concerned, he didn’t exist before he was 28; everything you know about Derse is stuff you’ve pieced together from what others have told you.

But hearing her name …

“What are they about?”

“Mind your own business and go the fuck to sleep.”

“ _Why were you talking about Jade_?” You snap, and sit up to glare at him. His back’s to you, but you think you can see the line of his shoulders go tense. “I don’t even hang out with her that much!”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Fine. Whatever. I don’t give a shit.” You lay back down and glare into the darkness.

You’re half-asleep when he tells you he kills her. “ _What_?”

“I just … stab her. And I didn’t even fucking know her when this shit started, so don’t start with me.”

“Is it a … like, a psychic wizard thing?” you hazard. “Like a premonition?”

“Unless I’m due to get giant fucking wings and a overpowering craving for fucking Beggin’ Strips, no.”

“That’s weird, Dad.” You think about it. “Beggin’ strips?”

“Yeah. An’ a fucking sword through the chest. All the time.”

“And that’s the nightmare.”

“Yup.”

“That’s real lame, Dad. It was scary right up until the Beggin’ Strips.”

“Fuck off, I didn’t want validation.”

“Is that a Derse thing? Fake bacon?”

Slick kicks you and you’re so close to the edge of the mattress you fall on the floor. You hear him snicker. “You can stay there.”

You grab a tendril of blanket that’s hanging over the edge and tug at it. “I want the fucking comforter then.” You pull again, to no avail. “Seriously, Dad, it’s fucking freezing down here.” You wait. “ _Dad_.”

“Just stay on your fucking side.” You smirk and curl back up on the edge of the mattress, and this time when you pull on the blanket you get a great deal more than on your previous attempts. “And don’t mention fuckin’ Beggin’ Strips.”


	10. Karkat, death at the hands of Jack Noir in context of Stabdads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "sorry karkat your stabdad’s alter ego is a psycho" - (inspired by a picture by Shalala: http://wachtelspinat.tumblr.com/post/10696180927/ren-ne-rei-post-it-ren-ne-rei-this-is-cool)

Karkat hates falling asleep out of the sopor – it’s a troll thing. He’s comfortable in the stuff, first of all, but it’s the nightmares that really drive him to the gelatinous green embrace every night. Blankets soaked in it can cut it for a while, bedrolls with packets of the stuff are alright too, but nothing beats the recuperacoon and its brimming hollow.

Certainly not his desk chair, where he’s sleeping now. His head’s cradled in his arms, one sneaker’s hanging off the back of his heel, and his computer monitor has gone to sleep, black and cold. And, hunched over his desk, Karkat is dreaming.

He’s in Derse – he’s never been to Derse, but he’s seen pictures – and he’s waking up on a cold, purple floor. He rubs his eyes because for some reason he can feel the crustiness in the corners, even here in a dream, and looks down at his clothes: purple pajamas, soft and silky against his skin.

“Weird,” he says, getting his feet under himself. He’s conscious that he’s dreaming, which is weird too, but he’s also aware that this is not quite a dream. It feels real, it feels like there’s actually marble under his feet and cool, dry air against his hands and face and smooth silk pajamas. He pinches himself, and it hurts.

He’s heard of conscious dreaming, and how some people practice until they figure out how to do it, but he’s never practiced. Weird.

And then a voice rings through the dream-but-not. “You’re awake.”

“Am I?” The voice triggers something in his memory, and he turns to where he thinks it came from. “Dad?”

A low chuckle, somehow less connected to reality than usual, and a tall, almost skeletal figure stalks out of the shadows. Karkat blinks, and takes a step back. It wasn’t Slick. Slick didn’t have wings, for starters. “Not quite, kiddo.”

“But –” The face was the same, almost. Thinner, a mirror image, but the same, really. And the uniform, well … there was a shredded rag of something patched and colorful around his neck, but the rest of the uniform was the Dersite Archagent’s. He’d seen a picture in his World Cultures textbook once, right before Slick ripped the page out.

“Name’s Jack Noir, Dreamer.” He drew even with Karkat, who was even more confused now, and leaned down to look him in the eye. “Good morning.”

“Jack Noir?” Karkat asks, because that doesn’t make sense. Jack’s face twists into a scowl.

“You fuckin’ deaf?” he snaps, and Karkat flinched away. Jack took advantage then: Karkat is suddenly hanging by the collar of his stupid pajamas, a foot off the ground, clutching the collar of the shirt away from his throat and kicking out. “Big plans, Dreamer?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he gasps, and Slick – it has to be some weird subconscious manifestation of him, some kind of awful mirror image – cocks his head, quizzical smile quirking one corner of his mouth. “Put me down, fuckass!”

It would have worked on Slick. He would have snapped something about language and put Karkat down and told him to go to his room and let him stew for a few hours before dropping a Hot Pocket off like some kind of bizarre peace offering.

It didn’t work here, though, not on Nightmare Slick. The guy just snarled and bared every last one of those awful shark teeth and bodily pitched Karkat into a pillar. His face cracked against the stone and his head rang. Before Karkat has a chance to register anything besides the impact and the sensation of a warm trickle of blood running down his face, a tentacle whips out and hauls him back to Jack Noir.

“You’re not a very polite little jackass, are you,” Jack sneers, scooping Karkat up by the front of his pajamas. “Fine by me, makes this more enjoyable.”

“Dad,” Karkat half-pleads, “what the hell –”

“I’m not your fuckin’ dad, kid.” He snorts. “None of you little fuckers got parents – just a whole fucking kingdom at your beck and call whenever you decide to haul your asses out of bed.” He pulled Karkat closer and grimaced, his teeth half an inch away from the tip of Karkat’s nose. “Not anymore though, not while I’m running this hellhole.”

“What?” Karkat struggles against Jack’s hand, and the tentacle encircling his chest. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

The tall man almost roars, and drops Karkat before backhanding him. He’s got a ring on, and it bites into Karkat’s eyebrow, laying it open and starting a steady flow of blood down his face and shirt. “Lazy _and_ stupid as shit!”

“ _Dad_.”

“Oh would you _shut the fuck up_.” He hoists Karkat up once again and grabs his face, his sharp fingers digging into the gray skin. Then he spins Karkat and clamps him close to his too-thin chest with a tentacle and claps a bony hand over his mouth. “Call me your fucking dad one more time and I’m not even going to take the fucking time to enjoy what I’m about to do.”

Karkat’s struggling, clawing at the man’s hand and arm, but he’s got a grip like iron. His nose is bleeding too, and he can feel the heat of it on his neck and chest, and the hot sting of tears in his eyes and on his cheeks.

He can feel all of it. He’s not dreaming.

“Little Dreamer,” the nightmare monster that is his Dad says, shushing him as he struggles against the hand and the tentacle. “One little kid with a brain that could change a kingdom. End a sovereign.” He leans in, over Karkat’s shoulder, and Karkat tries to scream and pull away as he gasps for air around the black glove. “Shh, kid. It’s gotta be this way, you know? You have one bad dream and, hahaha, you could _kill me_.” There’s no rationality there, nothing besides cold, hard insanity boiled down and distilled into paranoia and total madness. “Dignitary used to say that wouldn’t happen, you know. But he lied. He lied a lot.” Karkat screamed again and kicked, the hilt of the sword in Noir’s chest scraping up against his ribs. “Shh, it’s alright, he can’t lie anymore. Him and those other two idiots, liars all of them. Didn’t trust old Jack.”

Karkat flails even harder then, his frantic screams muffled and going hoarse. “Aw, c’mon kid, this is your kingdom too, right? You have to _trust me_.” He chuckled again and Karkat just cried and shook. “I guess I am kind of like your dad. Protect you, make sure you do what’s right for the kingdom, right? Thing is, I don’t trust you to do that.”

He pulls his hand away and clamps Karkat’s arms down with the other tentacle. Karkat gasps as the air chills his face when it hits the blood and the snot and the tears, but he doesn’t scream. Not until Jack pulls the sword out of his chest.

“But you trust _me_ , don’t you kid? You trust your dad, yeah.” He smiles, and it’s inarguably the worst thing Karkat has ever seen in his life. “Aw, c’mon kiddo, don’t scream. Just trust me. I’m just doing what’s best for you.” He hefts the sword in his one hand and Karkat writhes against the tentacles. “What’s best for Derse. And, hahaha, definitely what’s best for me.

“Goodnight, little Dreamer,” he said, over Karkat’s terrified screams. “Sleep tight, kiddo.”

The sword thrusts forward. Karkat feels it in his ribcage, and then he doesn’t feel anything at all.

-()-

No, that’s not right. He does feel something. He feels … sopor. Sopor on his skin, warm and gooey and soothing.

He jerks up and wipes the stuff from his face, and slicks it back out of his hair. Then he looks at his hands, still grey and the same as always, and his chest, still in one piece. He puts his hand to his eyebrow, where it had been split and bleeding, and there’s nothing there but the usual soft curve of hair and bone.

A dream. It really was a dream.

It didn’t feel like a dream. Oh, hell no, it didn’t.

He stumbles out of the sopor and into the shower. He felt like he was in a total haze, drifting through his morning routine solely by the grace of it being a routine he could probably do blind. After he dresses, he stumbles into the kitchen, yawning and stretching and trying not to think about the dream.

Slick’s there. And he’s already wide awake and sober at seven in the morning, which is just wrong on so many levels. They stare at each other for a minute, before Karkat speaks up. “Uh. Hey.”

Slick stares at him for another second, and then turns away, shoulders tense. He pulls the freezer open and glares into it. “You want some fucking waffles?”

It’s not a bad idea, really, and Karkat stands next to the man while they stare at the toaster, side-by-side, in the most uncomfortable silence Karkat can ever remember them having. When the waffles pop up, they both jump, and then exchange embarrassed looks.

“Hey, uh, I have a question.” Karkat breaks the silence, when he’s sure he’s got the phrasing right. “Did, um, did you come into my room last night?”

Slick coughs into his coffee. “Uh. Yeah. You were … um, screaming.” And then that strange look of vulnerability passes and he manages a weak sneer. “If I’m gonna buy that stupid fucking beehive thing you oughta sleep in it.”

“It’s a recuperacoon,” Karkat says distantly, and shovels another forkful of waffles into his mouth.

“Yeah, well, whatever. Sleep in it so you don’t get fucking nightmares, alright?”

Karkat looks up, and they share a look, just for a second. “You had one last night too, didn’t you?” he asks, voice low. Slick doesn’t answer, not out loud, but he nods. “One of the bad ones, right?”

They don’t talk for a while.

“Karkat,” Slick says finally, leaning forward onto the table. “They’re just dreams, alright? They don’t … mean anything. Just don’t, don’t fucking _dwell_ on it or anything, okay?”

Karkat nods, uncertain. “They don’t really mean anything?”

“I don’t know where the fuck they come from,” Slick sighs, running his hand through his already untidy hair. “But they never fucking mean anything. They’re just … nightmares.”

Karkat nods and finishes his breakfast in silence. It’s still an uncomfortable silence, but Slick at least seems a little less aggravated and Karkat isn’t afraid he’s going to have to jump for his life at any minute. “You want a ride?” Slick offers, when Karkat gets up, dumps the syrupy plate in the sink and grabs his backpack off the floor.

“I …” he looks outside and shrugs. “It’s a nice day. Whatever.”

“I gotta see Droog this morning anyway,” Slick grumbled, grabbing his keys. “Needy fucker.” He follows Karkat down the hall, and right before Karkat grabs the handle to the door he grabs his shoulder. “Karkat, listen, I’m serious, alright?” He looks tired, and frazzled, and in that second Karkat realizes that he’s telling the truth. He sighs, and relaxes, and nods, just once.

“Yeah, Dad, alright.”


	11. Droog+Slick, birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "jack turns forty." - Anon

“Happy birthday, Droog!” Deuce said, first thing in the morning, when he saw the taller man at the hideout’s scarred-up table, drinking a coffee. Droog didn’t look away from the paper, just raised an eyebrow.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered! It’s the same day every year, _duh_ ,” Deuce said, as though Droog were the fool in this situation. “You and Slick, March 7. I write it on my calendar.” He beamed. “How old are you now?”

Droog paused, and took a breath. “Forty,” he muttered. It wasn’t like it was a big deal, he assured himself. He was exactly the same as he was yesterday. Exactly.

Except he was forty now, not thirty-nine. Funny how that was a big difference.

“And Deuce,” he went on, after the other man had a chance to gasp, which was totally unnecessary, in Droog’s possibly-biased opinion. “Don’t say _anything_ to Slick. Nothing.” He folded the paper down and caught Deuce drawing on the table with a crayon he’d found somewhere. “Deuce, look at me.” The Crew’s demolitions expert looked up with a soft little ‘huh?’ “ _Say nothing_.”

“Okay, boss, I got it!” He mimed zipping up his mouth. “Lips are sealed.”

“Don’t forget.”

“I won’t!”

When Slick turned up at the hideout forty minutes later, Droog could gauge his mood before he even saw him; you heard him coming a mile away. He was fuming, and probably over nothing Crew-related whatsoever. Probably over the same thing Droog himself was simply avoiding thinking about. “Hi boss!” Deuce chirped, cereal dribbling from his spoon, when the main entranceway slammed open.

Slick paused, and then shoved his hands into his pockets and snarled. “The fuck are you so happy about,” he snapped, stalking over to the tabled, shoulders hunched, and flinging himself into a chair.

“I’m glad you’re both here now!” Deuce winked at Droog, who had gone very still, and hopped out of his seat. “Because I got you both stuff!”

“Why?” Slick’s teeth were grinding; Droog could hear it. He put his head in his hands.

“Because it’s Tuesday!” Droog was impressed at the little guy’s cover. Although only a little; Deuce did have a history of legitimately celebrating days of the week. Boxcars had once received a thirty pack of socks from him because it was Thursday.

“Yeah, whatever,” Slick grumbled, tearing through the paper with one swipe, while Droog meticulously peeled the tape off and unfolded the rainbow-patterned paper. “…The fuck is this?”

“Aleve! The commercial says it is all day strong, all day long for arthritis pain.”

Droog managed to catch Slick mid-air as the boss took a flying leap for Deuce. “Really, Deuce?” he sighed, as Slick flailed and clawed and hissed unintelligibly.

“Well I was just trying to think of you guys!” Deuce said, indignant, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s a problem you have when you get old.”

Droog momentarily debated letting Slick go, not the least of his reasons being that Slick was squirming so much that he was putting a distressing amount of wrinkles in Droog’s suit. Instead, though, he said, “Deuce, why don’t you go get some lunch.”

“But it’s only nine thirty in the morning! Should I get a cake? It’ll probably take a little while, I guess if I have to wait…”

Droog almost groaned, and wrapped his arms more firmly around Slick’s middle. “Just go away for a couple hours, Deuce. No cake.” Slick thrashed and Droog dropped him. He jumped on top of him before he could do any damage. “You’ve induced celebration enough.”


	12. Genderbent Slick, Miracle of Life continuation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, I for one definitely want more genderbent Slick. :D" - creepyold-kit-hands

You remember the days when you used to sleep through the night, vaguely. Well, not the night so much - those years were so long ago and anyway you’d rather not remember them to begin with - but at least through the very early to late morning. They were nice, and uninterrupted, and you woke up the next day feeling less like death than you had when you’d fallen asleep. You’ve never been a morning person, but you’re realizing now that you can be so much more than grumpy in the morning. You can be exhausted, hostile, _and_ grumpy.

Tomorrow morning is going to be one of those mornings.

Karkat started yelling around four thirty, and Sleuth started to get up. But you were already half out of bed anyway, running your hand through your hair and staggering next-door, half-awake. You slipped through the door, quietly, although it would be a miracle if Kanaya were still asleep, the way your son was screaming.

She was though, and Karkat quieted immediately when he saw you. He was standing - like a real person, it was fucking amazing how fast that had seemed to happen - and watching you from his crib. You walk over and lean on the railing, and he beams. “Da,” he says, one tiny hand landing on top of yours.

You sighed. “A for effort.” It had worried you, at first, when both your kids seemed incapable of discerning which word went with you and which one went with Sleuth, but apparently that was normal. You’d been afraid they were idiots. “Whaddaya want?”

“Ma,” he said, waving his other hand helplessly in your direction, unsteady on his feet. He babbled, and even though there were no words there was a sense of stubborn urgency.

“Fine,” you half-groan, picking him up and taking him from the room. No point in disturbing the sleeping one, not if you could help it. It was too early in the morning to deal with both at once. “You hungry or something? Want some Cheerios?” You put him down in the high chair, but it’s not five seconds before he’s frustrated, babbling and pounding his hands on the tray. “Fine, fine, sheesh.”

You pick him up again, and he snuggles close. “Oh, so it’s like that,” you mutter, easing yourself onto the couch and propping your bare feet up on the coffee table. He says something nonsensical and buries his head in your shoulder. “You have a nightmare or something?”

“Ba.” He wiggles a little, into a more comfortable position, and his knee grinds into your stomach. You grunt and gently rearrange him. He says something else, but fucked if you know what it means. You watch him and Kanaya sometimes, though, and it’s like their own language: she always picks up what he’s trying to say, and they babble back and forth like it’s a perfectly normal conversation. Sleuth is absolutely floored every time it happens, and even though you hide it behind a front of cool amusement, you are too. And maybe a little jealous.

You bounce him a little, and he giggles, sleepily. So he is tired. “When are you gonna let me sleep?” you ask him. “How old are you gonna be, hm?” He mumbles something into your shoulder. “Yeah, yeah,” you say. And then you start stroking his back, which is totally an instinct thing; _ha_ , you’d thought, the first time you’d done it, when they’d been babies, _score one for fucking mothering instincts_.

You start humming, and you can feel him start quieting, the talking he was doing drifting off, his breath slowing. It’s not a song that’s appropriate for kids, that’s for damn sure, and God help you if they ever remember the song and ask you about the words, but it’s a good tune and it’s soothing and it was the only one you could think of the first time, when you’d been exhausted and they’d been screaming.

You hum until you get to the end, and by then he’s truly asleep in your arms. You debate just staying there on the couch, Karkat on your chest, and nodding off for a few hours, but you always wake up tired and uncomfortable the next day when you do that. So you take him back to his room and nestle him down in the crib and go back to bed yourself.

“Hungry?” Sleuth mumbled, when you laid back down and he wrapped his arms around you.

“Nah. Needy little bastard.” You smirk, eye half-closed. “Just like his stupid dad.”

“Uh huh.” He kissed your temple and breathed out, his breath hot on your neck. “Good thing you like me, then, if you’re gonna have to deal with two of me.”

“Whatever,” you say, but you kiss him back anyway, and fall asleep in his arms.


	13. Tavros+Eridan, dance-off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Alright, I love crackfic Wednesday! Time to pull out my stash! Hmmm... what about Tavros Eridan enter a dance off/dance contest/whatever. (And... Tavros wins even though he doesn't have working legs, just because Eridan's a douche?)" - Lemonbubble

Eridan Ampora stared at his moirail, down his stupidly long nose, from behind those stupid clunky black frames, and Tavros glared right back up at him, for once totally confident in something, namely: that he was _right_.

Everybody around could see the signs: Tavros Nitram, was about to stand up for himself. Even though, technically, he cannot stand.

“Aw, Eridan, you’re making him _mad_ ,” Vriska jeered. “Moirallegiance on the rocks, huh?”

“No, no ve’re not on the rocks, Vriska,” Eridan said firmly, arms crossed, “ve are just having a minor disagreement.”

Tavros bristled. _Minor_ , he said. As if this is _minor_. “Uh, Eridan,” he said, as their classmates gathered ‘round, the rest of Tavros’s Crew flanking his chair, “this, um, this is _not_ minor. Uh. As if, uh, as if you can _really_ expect, um, expect me to uh, just uh, uh, _accept_ that N*sync is superior to, um, the Backstreet Boys.” He flashed his teeth, hesistantly. “ _Minor_ , uh, indeed.”

“This is the stupidest argument I have ever had the misfortune of possibly auspiticing later,” Kanaya sighed.

“ _No_ ,” Eridan said firmly. “No, there vill be no auspitice in this conflict. Ve vill settle this, settle it like the _men_ of N*sync.”

“You, uh, you mean like, uh, like the, um, _mature, masculine adults_ , oh, uh, of the, um Backstreet Boys.”

“And how’s that?” Dave Strider asked, one bleach-blonde eyebrow perfectly cocked. “A speed chest-waxing competition?”

“ _No_ ,” Eridan snapped.

“No,” Tavros agreed. “It’s gotta be, uh, a, um, dance-off.”

“A what,” Karkat said behind him, voice flat. “You’re joking.”

“Of course not!” Eridan cried shrilly, whipping his cape off and tossing it to Nepeta. “David, prepare your iPod!”

“This is stupid,” Karkat groaned.

“This is _var_ ,” Eridan sneered. “Dirty Pop, David, if you vould.”

Dave frowned, and then glanced to Terezi, on his right. “I only have this song ironically.”

“Uh huh, Cool Kid, I’ll _bet_.” She smirked as Justin Timberlake and the synth started playing out of the iPod’s minuscule speakers. “Go get ‘em, Ampora.”

Eridan did try; he tried his hardest. He shuffled, he spun, he attempted a moonwalk, he got in Tavros’s face, and eventually he flung himself to the ground in a sad attempt at breakdancing.

“Breathtaking,” Aradia groaned behind Tavros. “I’m speechless.”

“This. Is. Stupid.” Karkat added.

“ _Vhat now_?!” Eridan roared, springing back to his feet and spreading his arms, before smoothing back his mussed hair. “Bring it, Nitram.”

“ _Oh_ , uh, you better, um, _believe_ I’m gonna.” He spun in a circle, once, and then looked to Dave.

“Only Backstreet Boys I have is Larger Than Life, dude. Sorry. Nothing else is ironic enough.”

“Then, uh, _let’s_ , er, _do it_.” He glared at Eridan, and then the music started.

There was no ridiculous attempts at breakdancing. There was no sad, pale imitation of the Boys’ choreography. There was only Tavros Nitram, dancing the hell out of the Backstreet Boys. His sense of rhythm was indisputable, his chair-bound grace totally undeniable. And then he started spinning, and picking up momentum, before going up on wheel and whirling like a top.

“ _What now_?!” he shouted, when all four wheels clanked back to the ground and the rest of the class emerged from stunned silence to erupt into cheers.

“What is even _up_ , man?” Gamzee crowed, slapping Tavros’s palm. “Fuckin’ miracles, that shit was flying off the fucking handle!”

“Yeah, that shit and that handle had literally the _worst_ verbal altercation, and the shit bought a one-way ticket to Hawaii to get some fucking space from that handle, man,” Dave smirked, high-fiving Tavros. “ _Awesome_.”

“Uh, ha, thanks guys.” Tavros smiled around at them, and the rest of the Crew, and then up to Eridan. “So?”

“You realize this settles nothing but who vas the better dancer on this day, yes?”

“Uh, sure. But, um, do you, uh, concede?”

Eridan scowled, but it was a pale shadow of one, because he was trying not to smile. “I suppose I have no choice,” he sighed heavily, before high-fiving Tavros as well. “Because that vas _awesome_.”


	14. Karkat, finding Slick's Terrier Fancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Karkat. Slick's "Terrier Fancy Magazine". Make it happen." - Anon

You are fifteen years old before you find your father’s collection of secret magazines. You’re in his office, looking for your history book, which you know is in here somewhere, because he likes to take them and rip all the pages that mention Derse out. Especially in your newer textbooks, because they all talk about the Archagent That Revolted, god help you if you ever mention that name, and sometimes there are pictures.

The first time you saw a picture of him, you almost tore it out yourself. And then you stopped, and you had to smirk, because you could picture your dad’s reaction. You left that book out somewhere conspicuous, and you waited for the screaming.

Now, though, it’s getting old. You can’t study half the time, and even though your grades are fine you really would like to be able to consult the book here and there. Plus, you hate digging through Slick’s stuff.

And this is why, you think with a sigh. You pull open a drawer in his desk and under a couple empty boxes of cigarettes, the glossy face of an Airedale Terrier looks solemnly up at you, under the emblazoned legend of ‘TERRIER FANCY’.

Your dad is so weird.

“The _hell_ are you doing?” Ah, speak of the fucking Devil.

You look up and shrug. “Looking for my stupid textbook.”

He frowns, and looks at the desk. And then he catches which drawer is open, and before you know it he’s between you and the desk, slamming the drawer shut with his shoe and glaring. “ _It’s not fucking in there_ ,” he hisses. “Who the fuck do you think you are going through my desk.”

“Your damn kid, dad, what the hell is your problem.”

“What did you see?” he growls, voice low. “And don’t fucking swear, I keep telling you.”

You give him a look then, picking up that something is most definitely amiss. “Uh, I didn’t see anything. Heist plans, uh, just papers or whatever, and your stupid magazines about dogs.” You shake your head, squinting at him. “We don’t even _have_ a dog, Dad.”

“ _Tell no one_.”

You blink. “About what? Terrier Fancy?”

“Shut the fuck up!” He takes a breath. “Just … don’t say the name.”

“Dad, uh, what the hell?” you settle on. And then a horrifying realization dawns on you. “Do you like … oh God … like, uh -“

“ _No_ ,” he snaps. “Jesus, Karkat, don’t be disgusting.”

“So why do you, uh, have those?

“I just …” he looks away, shifts uncomfortably. It’s one of the few times you’ve seen him like this, and you’re boggling a little that it’s over a stack of Terrier Fancy’s. “I just like dogs.”

You wait for something else, but when nothing follows you ask, “So?”

“Well it’s not exactly fucking _menacing_ is it?” he snaps. “Kind of fucking wimpy as shit, really.”

“Dad, like 90% of the world likes dogs, seriously. Get your life together.” Slick glares at you then, and you just sigh. “Whatever, can I just please have my mutilated textbook?”

“Fine.” He cracks the top of the piano open and pulls the book out. “There.”

You flip the book open, and are surprised to find the chapter on Derse is intact. “Been busy?” you ask.

“Fuck off.”

And then, because you can’t resist, you give the picture of the Royal Entourage an appraising look. “Man, Dad, you got old.”

It’s alright that he practically shreds the entire thing. You’re not sure you could have stood to have a book without a few pages missing anyway.


	15. Droog/Slick, genderbent Droog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "IDK, Slick went so well, let's genderbend someone else, JUST TO SEE. Like, uh...Droog. Or Boxcars. Your choice. Whichever one, pair them with Slick, because I said so. And really at that point do whatever, I trust you." - Vanny

Snowman’s always hated that your name’s Diamonds. She’s always hated you for a lot of reasons, really, but she always brings the damn name thing up. Like you were even there when she was born and her mother decided to saddle her with her name. Like she was even there when your mother decided to give you a name that was too pretty but just sharp and hard enough.

And the bitch is bringing it up now, at the least appropriate moment you could think of. You’re pissed, because you’ve got blood on your fedora and your tie, and a run in your tights and you’re crouched behind a crate which is just fucking hard to do in heels.

And she’s got your boyfriend tied to a chair, drugged up and drowsy. That too.

She cocks her tommy gun on her hip and sets a cigarette between her lips. Her lip-liner doesn’t quite match the shade of her lipstick, you notice, and you sneer. “So, Pretty Name, you bring the rest of the goonies with you?” She lit her cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. “Or is it just us girls tonight?”

You don’t say anything. Best way to deal with her, really. That’s why she likes Slick, wants him; he puts up a fight, he gives her something to get off on. It’s harder with you, because you just shut down.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She adjusts her grip on the gun and taps the ash off her cigarette. “Been having fun with your little boyfriend, Diamonds. He’s so _easy_ , you know? You hardly have to say anything and he’s furious.”

“You fucking bitch,” Slick says, or tries to say. His mouth isn’t cooperating.

“See what I mean? Ah, well, you know what I mean, don’t you.” She blew a smoke ring. “So. We seem to be at an impasse.”

You raise one perfectly-tweezed eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“Well, I have your boyfriend, you want your boyfriend. _You_ have my necklace, I want my necklace.” She frowned, just a little. “Come on, Diamonds, you got enough sparkle in your name. You don’t need _my_ necklace too. Besides, it’s too flashy for your style; not red enough, not enough quadrilaterals, hm?”

“I wasn’t planning on wearing it,” you scoff, and slowly ease your hand up to your thigh, under your skirt. The gun slides out of the holster, soundless, and Snowman doesn’t seem to notice. “I was going to sell it.”

She frowns, flashing her teeth before she yanks the cigarette from her lips. “And what’s the point of that, hm?”

“Boredom, mostly.” You shrug. “Tell you what, that idiot in the chair is worth a little bit more to me than your necklace; you let me up to get him, I’ll give you your necklace, alright?”

She watches you for a second, and then gestures for you to stand with the barrel of her gun. You stand and then, before she can react, shoot her in her gun hand. The tommy goes off briefly when it hits the floor, but you’re over the crates and kicking it away before it can do any damage. Snowman freezes when your gun presses into the soft flesh under her chin.

“My hand’s bleeding,” she tells you, and you shrug, disinterested. “That was a dirty trick, Diamonds.”

“You started it,” you remind her, cocking your head to Slick but not turning to look at him, even as he tries to garble out a question about what’s going on, blindfolded as he is.

She sighs. Her breath smells like cigarettes, mostly, but maybe there’s a hint of mint to it. “So I did. And here we are at another impasse.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Doesn’t quite seem to the the case from where I’m standing, Snowman.” A gun presses into your stomach, just below where your vest ends. “Aha.”

She smirks, nods her head. “Or maybe it does.” She holds out her other hand, slowly. “The necklace, Diamonds.”

You don’t sigh, but you do glare as you reach into your vest and pull the necklace out and let it pool in her hand, sparkling in the dim light of the basement. Her long fingers close around it and she smiles brightly. “Thanks very much, love.” She kisses you on the cheek, heedless of your gun, and winks. “He’s all yours, love; I got what I wanted.”

You let her go, because she’s Snowman, and you can’t kill her, much as you’d like to. You wait for the door to close behind her before you re-holster your gun and turn to Slick.

“Droog?” he asks, groggy and blind, trying to look for you while you cut the ropes around his chest. You come around to the front of him, and put your arms around him to undo the wrist bindings. While you’re there, you kiss him. He smiles. “Hey.”

Then you slap him. “The hell were you thinking, going by a Felt bar on your own?” You yank the blindfold off and he blinks at you as his eye re-adjusts to the light. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you have a death wish.”

He flashes you a big old shit-eating grin. “Or I’m cheating on you.”

You cock one hip and gesture for him to hurry up. “Like I said.”

“Ha fucking ha.” He bends and unties his ankles, and you help him stand up as he flexes the blood back into his limbs and fights off the lingering effects of the drugs. “You gave up the necklace,” he noted, as he slumps into your side and you help him out of the basement, up the back stairs, away from the mansion. “Was a nice fuckin’ necklace.”

“Hm,” you say, trying not to go down with him when he stumbled. “Nice enough to have replicas made of it, probably.”

“Yeah, yeah it was pretty nice.” You get all the way to the car before he gets a look of realization. “Wait … Wait.” You smile as you force him into his seat. He grabs your wrist right before you pull back to shut the door, and you put one hand on the roof of the car and lean down. “Have I ever told you,” he slurs, “that I fucking love you?”

“Not in so many words,” you say, and you kiss him quick before pulling away. “Now let’s get the hell out of here before she figures out it’s a fake.”


	16. Crowbar/Die, Karaoke Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm trying to come up with something that isn't spice world related and the only thing I got is 'kareoke night at the felt mansion' which I am certain I attempted to prompt before so eehnn, sorry" - trexila

No one remembered who bought the karaoke machine. No one even remembered when it had shown up. Stitch sort of vaguely remembered that Sawbuck had been the first one to suggest a standing karaoke night, years and years ago, but no one else did.

Either way, Tuesday nights were karaoke nights at the mansion. It usually started with drinking, while Sawbuck and Cans crooned duets together, and then eventually someone else was drunk enough to take a stab at it. More often than not this was Itchy, who liked to sing songs that were fast and German and altogether too bouncy for Stitch.

There were the holdouts, the ones that never sang. Crowbar rarely participated, unless he was _really_ trashed, and Die had never set foot in front of the group. Snowman had joined the fun, once, at the end of the night when she sang ‘Me and My Bobby McGee’ and knocked everyone on their asses. Stitch certainly didn’t remember ever having participated, but the others would still talk of last Christmas and ‘The Hanukkah Song’ in hushed tones around him.

Tonight though, tonight was routine. Started with Sawbuck, Cans joined him after an oil drum or two, and then they ceded the stage to Doze, who made it through almost the entire first verse of ‘Butterfly Kisses’ before the song ended. The rest of the Felt had rotated through since then, song choices swinging from ‘Barbie Girl’ to ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’. And the alcohol kept flowing, so it didn’t look as though it was likely to stop anytime soon.

Stitch was watching another interaction, though, that was much more interesting than what was going on on the makeshift stage. Sure, watching Clover try to sing anything by Clarence Carter was always a laugh, but no, over in the corner, where they thought they were hidden … _Well_ , thought Stitch, as Die hesitantly scooted a couple inches closer to Crowbar, _this_ is _interesting_.

“Wha’ … What’re you doin’?” Crowbar asked, cautiously, blinking muzzily at Die.

“I think we need to talk,” Die said, quiet, barely audible over Clover’s last wailed notes of ‘Strokin’.

Up on stage, Fin and Trace had staggered to front and center. “We’re … we’re gonna sing a duet,” Trace declared, while Fin fiddled with the machine. “As _platonic friends_ , you assholes.”

“You …” Crowbar looked at Die and then laughed a little. In the background, the music started. “What’chu wanna talk about?”

Fin raised his microphone. “ _Somewhere, out there, beneath the pale moonlight_ …”

“I, uh, I think we should talk about you. And, um. Me.”

“… _and loving me tonight_.”

“Whaddaya mean me an’ you?”

“ _Somewhere, out there, someone’s saying a prayer_ ,” Trace began.

“Well, I mean, well.” Die frowned. “What I, uh, what I mean is _how do you feel about_ , um, about me?”

“ _That we’ll find one another in a way somewhere out there._ ”

“What? Like? In the gang? You’re good at … at voodoo and stuff, and uh, you’re pretty useful and you never get in the way really and you don’t die a lot like the rest of these assholes even though I guess you die all the time ‘cause your name is Die ahahahaha …”

“ _And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby -_ ”

“No, not as a gang member,” Die said, a little desperate, over the wailing of the shark boys. “As … as a person as … as …”

“ _It helps to think we might be sleeping ‘neath the same big sky!”_

“Come on, boy, go for it,” Stitch mumbled under his breath.

“ _Somewhere out there, love will see us through_ ,” Fin and Trace sang together, and Die just grabbed Crowbar’s lapels and stuck his tongue in the unofficial leader of the Felt’s mouth. “Atta boy,” Stitch murmured.

Crowbar jerked back, wide-eyed. “Die?”

“No, Crowbar, no.” Stitch was totally focused on them now, hands balled into fists, his cigar smoking in the ashtray, neglected.

“ _Then we’ll be together -_ ”

Die paled. “S-Sorry I just … I thought some of the things you’d said in the past and … And it was stupid it - mrnurf?”

“It was not,” Crowbar slurred between kisses, as he pulled Die closer and cupped the back of the skinny guy’s head in his hand, “stupid in the slightest.”

“ _Somewhere out there, out where dreams come true_ …”

“Good boys,” Stitch grumbled, smirking, before turning away, back to the room and Fin and Trace and the rest of the Felt, and leaving them to it.


	17. Midnight Crew, Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Slick is drunk and made the plans for a heist (way too convoluted, involves more smashing of clocks than necessary and perhaps stopping at a bar instead of making a proper getaway) and has intimidated everyone into rolling with it. Only not Droog; he decides to go to ensure none of the others get shot. Ehh take liberties if necessary." - Anon

You name is Clubs Deuce, and your boss is brilliant.

Well, at least in your opinion he is, anyway! Your other boss, Diamonds Droog, he doesn’t seem to think so. In fact, he really seems to disagree a lot.

You hide behind your best friend while they are fighting; you don’t like it when they fight. “They’re just talkin’ it out, Deuce, just give ‘em a minute,” Hearts tells you, while you crouch behind his bulk and watch worriedly as Slick yells and hollers and Droog stands there and tells him he’s wrong.

You think that Droog must be very brave, because you would _never_ tell the boss he’s wrong. But yes, Droog is very brave, and they are best friends, so that is probably why if anyone tells the boss he is wrong about work stuff, it is Droog.

“Why are they fighting?” you ask Hearts.

“‘Cause Boss has it in his head to rob that jewelry store a couple streets over, and Droog don’t think it’s such a good idea, is why.”

“Oh.” You squint up at him. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s there business to figure it out,” Boxcars chuckles. That’s what you like about Boxcars: even when the other two are upset with each other, or with you, Boxcars will always talk to you. He has never gotten upset with you; you remember that.

You listen to them argue for a while longer, and then Droog crosses his arms and frowns at Slick from behind his cigarette. “Fine,” he says. “Do whatever you want; I’ll stay in the van.”

“Why th’fuck don’ you jus’ stay here,” Slick says, gesturing to the hideout with his bourbon bottle and staggering a little. “Don’ fuckin’ come f’you’re gonna be dumb about it.”

“Because someone has to make sure you three don’t die,” Droog says, and he looks over at you and Boxcars. “Or at least those two.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get your deck,” Boxcars rumbles at you. “Looks like we’re rolling.”

He’s right. You gather up your deck and get into the Cruiser, in the back next to Boxcars. Droog drives and smokes, while Slick pitches around in the front seat, all alcohol-fueled enthusiasm and no coordination. “So where are we going?” you ask.

“Fletcher’s Gems, the place over on Twelfth and Border.”

“The jewelry store?”

Boxcars sighs a little, and you’re not really sure why. “Yes, Clubs. The jewelry store.”

“Oh, I like those! They’re quick and easy.”

“Right,” Slick chimed in, turning around and slumping over the arm of the passenger seat, “so then we … we c’n go t’th’ bar.”

“Slick you’re not being serious right now,” Droog groaned.

“Fuck you and drive, asshole.”

“This sounds like fun!” you say, while Hearts just pats your shoulder and Droog looks grimly out the windshield.

And it is fun: Slick is great a robbing places. He’s in his element, and after he gets Boxcars to pick the lock on the front door he slips in to deactivate the silent alarm before it even has a chance to trigger. You trot in then, and take stock of the store.

Huh, it’s a jewelry store. You don’t remember anyone mentioning you’d be doing this instead of a bank, but that’s kind of fun! You pull out your club and break one of the cases. “What do you want us to take, boss?” you ask, and Slick looks contemplatively into the case.

“Fuckin’ everything,” he concludes. You beam; he’s really smart. You would never have thought of that - you probably would have just taken the jewelry.

The three of you clean the cases out in ten minutes, and you manage to grab a bunch of their office supplies too, before Slick tells you to get back in the van. “The fuck’re you stealin’ pens for?” Boxcars asks, as he helps you in.

“Boss said take everything!”

“Damn straight,” Slick slurs, throwing up on the sidewalk before getting into the van. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth and then dug into a pocket, producing a shining silver watch. “Look, Droog, I got you a present an’ I didn’ even _break it_.”

Droog eyes the watch. “You’re sweet,” he concludes, pulling on a pair of gloves and gingerly taking the watch away from Slick.

“Now let’s go … to … that bar.” Slick points at the dingy neon-lit place down the street.

“No.”

You look from one to the other and cower back in your seat. They’re going to start fighting again. You don’t understand why - you just robbed that office supply place! Weird how they had all those rings there, but these sure are nice pens!

“Because it’s not even fifty feet away, Slick, and you’re trashed anyway.” Droog shifts the van into gear and you grab onto Boxcars as he steps on the gas so you don’t slide down the seat and hit the doors at the back of the van. You don’t like it very much when that happens. “You can have a drink at the hideout.”

“ _No_ ,” Slick snarls, but then he looks a little green, you think, which is a funny color for a person to be, just like Clover’s funny, and kind of green. And then Slick tries to lean out the window to throw up, probably, but it’s closed, so he hits his head and passes out. You gasp, Boxcars chuckles.

“Boss!”

“It’s alright, Deuce,” Boxcars laughs, while Droog glares over at Slick’s boneless, unconscious form, “he’s just gonna sleep it off.”

“Oh okay! That’s good.” You look to Boxcars, then, because you’re worried. “But can we still have a drink?”

Boxcars looks surprised. “You wanna drink somethin’?”

You nod, fervently. “Ever since we drove over to that OfficeMax! I don’t know, I just get these really really bad cravings for chocolate milk sometimes -” and then you beam, because Boxcars is roaring with laughter and slapping you on the back, and even Droog is smiling at you in the rear-view mirror, shaking his head, and you think if Slick weren’t passed out he’d laugh too. You smile because you made them laugh, even though you don’t know how, but you love it when the laugh, and you smile because they’re all so smart and they want you in their Crew.

Your name is Clubs Deuce, and right now you are so happy.


	18. Slick/Inspector, Droog/Ace, blind date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "SS/PI and AD/DD double blind date." - Anon

Droog had had doubts about this from the beginning, he really had. Actually, ‘doubts’ was a fairly mild term. ‘Forebodings’ would have been more accurate, or even ‘serious concerns’. Because he and Slick were meeting these two guys that Deuce knew, and liked, at some dingy bar.

It was kind of a date, and Diamonds Droog didn’t really do dates.

But Deuce had begged and begged and insisted that the one guy was really nice, and Sollux was best frenemies or some weird troll thing with the other guy’s kid, and eventually Slick caved and Droog got dragged along for the ride.

And now that they’d met the guys, Droog was really torn between what to feel. On one hand, he loved it when he was right. On the other hand, he sort of wished he hadn’t been right about this.

The one guy - Ace Dick, good Lord what a name - hadn’t stopped talking about his exploits since they’d got to the bar. He was insufferable, and he seemed hell-bent on impressing the taller of the two mobsters. The other guy - kind of tall, not bad-looking, actually, name had something to do with Pickles - hadn’t said a damn word other than to introduce himself. Which seemed to be working fine for Slick, because Slick had done nothing but demolish a plate of french fries and pound back bourbons.

Droog had to concede he would be doing the same, if he weren’t so worried about what might happen if his concentration slipped, sitting here between Ace Dick and Pickle Whatever.

Slick was on his third drink and second plate of greasy, fried appetizers before the Pickle guy said anything. “E-Excuse me,” he said to Droog, and Droog leaned back on his stool to oblige him. “Dick,” Pickle said, “you are being terribly rude and boorish.”

“What? I’ll show you!” Ace snarled. “Tall, gangly no-good goofy-lookin’ palooka.” He wound up for a swing.

In the space of less than a second, Pickle sat up, out of range of Ace’s fist, Droog grabbed his martini off the bar and saved himself from getting a lapful of gin, and Ace Dick swung at empty air and tumbled from his stool. Slick looked over.

“That guy wanna fight or somethin’?”

Droog opened his mouth to correct Slick, but then paused. “Yes,” he concluded. “Yes I think he does want to fight, Slick. How about you two go into the alley out back and have a nice, honest fistfight?”

“What, no fuckin’ … like, knives’r anything?”

“No, no I rather think not.” Slick looked at him, eye narrowed, and then slid off his stool like a snake. Ace Dick had got himself back on his feet, and was brushing his coatsleeves off when Slick grabbed him by the shoulder of the jacket, cursing him out for taking too long to get ready, and hauling him toward the back door of the bar.

“Tha - That was terribly devious of you,” Pickle observed, when the door banged shut and they both turned back to their drinks. The guy had been drinking nothing but tea all night, Droog realized. Odd.

“They’ll both be happier,” Droog shrugged. “So your name is Pickle … ?”

“Pickle Inspector,” the other man said, his hands shaking as he picked up the mug. “A-and you’re Diamonds D-Droog.”

Droog nods, sips his martini, and they look at each other for a minute. It’s the most awkward pause Droog can remember having for a long time - usually he would either leave or shoot the other person, but in this case neither is really an option. Well, leaving is.

But for some reason he doesn’t really want to leave.

Pickle Inspector is ogling him, and his eyes light on the rolled-up newspaper in Droog’s jacket pocket, just a regular paper, not one of the other ones. “D-Do you mind me asking, h-have you d-done the crossword?”

“Hm? Oh.” Droog frowns. “No, I usually don’t.” His hand lingers over the paper. “Would you like it?”

“I … I would hate to impose.”

“Not at all.” Droog pulls it free of his coat, and hands it to the Inspector. “I’ve finished the rest of it.”

“O-Oh. Wonderful,” Pickle Inspector says, and he looks delighted as he meticulously unfolds the paper - such a contrast to his half-dressed bedraggled appearance - and smooths the crossword out on the bar. “Oh, no, I’m n-not very g-good at questions about politics.”

Droog sips his martini, and ten minutes later finds himself leaving over the paper with the Inspector, talking quietly about the puzzle, his job, the Inspector’s job and teammates, and anything.

As blind dates go, it’s only 50% a failure. As first dates go … Well, Droog thinks, the fact that he’s considering it a first date says enough.


	19. Mobsterswitch: The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So I know that Path is doing the "Midnight Crew play the Problem Sleuth" fic and it's awesome. But I would love to see a crackfic in which Team Sleuth are actually nefarious gangsters and the Midnight Crew are actually hardboiled detectives, and they're pitted against each other and everything goes ridiculously awry. Pretty please? (If it's too much like Path's thing for you just disregard this prompt!)" - Anon
> 
> I do want to note that this is the _very beginning_ of mobsterswitched. The very very first fic. Had I known people would latch on to it like they did, I probably would have spent more time on it! :D

“So what happened overnight, Boss, huh?” you take a drag off your cigarette as the rest of your team clusters around your desk and looks expectantly at you.

“Bank robbery,” you tell them. “Fifth Union.”

Your right-hand man snarfs down the rest of his breakfast burrito and wipes his hands on his jacket. “Bet it was the Scoundrels again.” You nod, and he smirks.

Your name is Dead-eyed Detective, and your team is the best investigative team Midnight City has to offer. You’ve been going after the Twilight Scoundrels for three months, though, and while you’re doing better than the other sleuths who had gone after them - all of whom are dead - you still haven’t cuffed any of ‘em.

“So what’s the plan?” Snooping Scout asks, slouching back against the wall and swirling whatever he was drinking around in his flask. “Too late to catch ‘em in the act.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you say, leaning further back in your chair and smirking.

“Whaddaya mean ‘ _maybe_ ’?” Heavy Brawler crossed his arms and looked inquisitive. “They robbed the place last night, didn’t they? We ain’t gonna catch ‘em today.”

“Not where they robbed, sure enough,” Scout said.

“No, but we _might_ be able to get ‘em at their hideout.” Your team looks at you, blank.

“Detective, we don’t know where their hideout _is_ ,” Scout pointed out.

But then Cheerful Demoman chirped up. “I do!” He beamed at the other two, watching him with a stunning amount of incredulity. “I followed Angry Delinquent back the other day - it’s in a sewer, isn’t that weird?”

“And what else did you do?” you prompted him.

“Oh! I set some C4 to blow the side entrance open today at noon.” The other two just blink at him. “Yup!”

“Time is of the essence, gentlemen,” you say then, and grab your hat off your desk.

You can always trust Demoman to get it right when it comes to explosives, and this time is no exception. The door blows off its hinges at noon sharp and you charge into the hideout, down the ramp, guns drawn. You hear shouting, and frantic clanging; just like the cowards to try to run out the manhole without a fight. Good thing you parked the van on top of it. “Grab some air, Peccant Scofflaw!” Scout yells, when the smoke clears enough for him to spot their leader crouched behind the sofa and point a gun at him.

“So you clowns finally managed to find us, huh?” Scofflaw sneered. “Good for you.”

“You’ll never take us alive!” Delinquent screamed, flipping the table over and hunkering down behind it.

“Oh," you say, locking eyes with Pernicious Innovator. And then you smiled. “Happily, that’s not a requirement.”


	20. Slick/Sleuth, Poor Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "anyway, problem sleuth is depressed and his possibly-boyfriend-whatever-mobster-guy is not the best person to talk to
> 
> but just because he’s bad at communication with words doesn’t mean he’s like, bad at feelings
> 
> actually he is kind of bad at feelings but he uh
> 
> gets an A for effort" - sannam

Problem Sleuth was having a bad day. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence: when you’re a hardboiled private detective bad days actually happen more often than not, and all you can hope for is ending one in your own office drinking away your sorrows, rather than a triage bed at the local hospital getting pumped full of someone else’s blood. He’d had a fair amount of both types of bad days through the years.

This bad day, though, was the one he’d sort of been dreading for the past few years: the day when the younger, newer detective got the jump on him. Not in a fight, that wouldn’t have been bad – he’d been in enough fights to handle that little bastard anyway – but in a case.

He had taken a case from a dame a few weeks ago about a philandering husband, nothing unusual and nothing he couldn’t handle. But philandering husband had turned into pilfered valuables, and he’d ended up tracking that mess down. Meanwhile, that new asshole, Scrupulous Hound, was working the same case from the other angle: the husband had hired him out to figure out where his wife’s jewelry had vanished to. Sleuth had no idea Hound was working on it, and he’d assumed Hound hadn’t known about him either, until they’d passed each other in the street. Sleuth was already in a bad mood at that point: the dame had called him that morning, distant and distracted and quiet, to tell him she’d got to the bottom of the case, and thanks very much for his time, she would compensate him. Which was fine, but he did hate when a client figured a case out before he did.

“Ah, Problem Sleuth! Good to see you,” Hound had said, stepping out of the crowd and shaking his hand, catching him unawares in the crowd of people on the street. “Wonderful afternoon, isn’t it? And quite the case we just wrapped up, eh?”

“Uh?” Sleuth had said.

“Clever of her to hide those valuables away, really – had her husband not gotten suspicious of her infidelity he probably never would have discovered the intention to sell them!” He smiled serenely. “Ah well, the truth will out, eh?”

Sleuth cocked his head. “I’m sorry?”

“Ah, you were working for _her_ , weren’t you? Yes, I’d imagine that would muddy the waters a good deal,” he laughed. “I’m sure you would have got to the bottom of it eventually, though!” He elbowed Sleuth and winked knowingly. “I understand how it is – taking things slower at your age. Shootouts don’t have quite the attraction they used to, eh?”

“There was a shootout?” was all Sleuth could think to ask in that moment.

“Oh, no! No, it was all solved with a minimum of violence, just a minor knife fight but still, can’t be too careful, can you?” And then he’d shook Sleuth’s hand again and smiled brightly. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure – best of luck!” Sleuth had just stood there and watched him go, then, before slouching off with aching knees and a sore back and the phrase ‘ _at your age_ ’ ringing around the inside of his skull. He needed a drink.

What he found in the course of getting a drink – and really, it’s not like he should have been surprised, since he went to one of the Crew’s places – was Spades Slick. “Good,” Slick grumbled, “I was looking for an excuse to leave anyway.” He grabbed a bottle of bourbon from under the bar and stalked out, Sleuth trailing behind as they made their way back to Slick’s place.

“You’re fucking quiet,” Slick observed as he shouldered open his front door.

“Bad case.”

“Huh.” Slick pulled two glasses down and sloshed the liquor into them.

Sleuth took the time to smell it – rye, not wheat, bitter and harsh – before gulping back a mouthful. “The new kid – Hound or whatever – beat me to the punch. Figured the whole damn case out before I even started to pull shit together.”

“Well no one’s ever accused you of being bright,” Slick sniped. Sleuth followed him into his office, slouching down into the couch with his bourbon glass while Slick sat at the piano.

“Little bastard said it was because I had to take it slow,” Sleuth sighed. “On account of being ‘ _my age_ ’ whatever the hell that means.”

Slick shrugged and started picking out a melody, all in minor key, subdued and slow. “You want me to stab him up or something?”

“No, not really.”

Slick couldn’t look at him from where he was sitting, not comfortably, but Sleuth could read his body language well enough to pick up on his exasperation. “Then why the fuck should I care?”

Sleuth bristled at that – it wasn’t like it was unusual for Slick to be bluntly disinterested, but he was pissed anyway to start with, and Slick being a huge dick wasn’t helping. “You ever consider that sometimes someone just wants you to shut the hell up and listen?” He sipped his drink.

“Nope. That feelingsjam shit ain’t my style.”

“God, you’re such an asshole.” Sleuth laid back across the couch and pulled his hat off his head, laying it over his face instead. “Can’t even spare a little fucking sympathy. I mean, shit, Slick, you don’t even have to _do_ anything. You can play the damn piano for all I care. But I mean what the hell, you don’t have to make me feel _worse_.” He sighed, and set his glass down on the floor. “I don’t know why the hell I even bother with you.”

“Fuck you.” The pace of the music picked up, became agitated.

Sleuth frowned, under his hat, and started to sit up. “You know what? Fine. Fuck _you_ , I’m leaving.”

“You’re such a fucking pansy,” Slick snapped. Sleuth ignored him and put his hat back on, adjusted his trenchcoat and checked his pockets for his keys before he heaved himself up.

And then, halfway to the door, he paused. Slick hadn’t said anything else, but he’d trailed off playing whatever he’d been playing – and God, was he good, Sleuth thought when the music finally stopped and the silence rushed in to remind him of it – and, after a brief pause, started back up again.

This wasn’t sad, though, or the bluesy jazz Slick favored. This was light, and smooth and almost bouncy – a total contrast to everything Slick usually played. And then it was loud and strong and still the same quick tempo and bright notes. Sleuth blinked, his hand halfway to the doorknob.

“Is this –” he started, until the main melody kicked in and removed all doubt. His hand hit the doorknob, but he leaned on it instead, letting the song wash over him. A couple bars in, he let go of the door and walked over to the piano, hands in his pockets, and looked down at Slick. “This is the best song ever written,” Sleuth said, flatly.

“You’ve mentioned.”

“When?”

Slick looked up without breaking what he was playing. “How the fuck do you think I’m supposed to remember that?” He shrugged and started in on the bars where the words would usually start, subbing in piano runs for lyrics.

“I didn’t even know you _knew_ this song,” Sleuth said, just audible over the piano. He sat next to the smaller man, careful to stay out of his way as he pounded on the keys and squashed the pedals to the floor.

“Well after you went off about it being the best fucking song ever,” Slick muttered, rolling his eye.

Sleuth thought about saying something, thought about calling attention to the fact that Spades Slick had apparently gone out and learned a song (which, granted, for Slick basically involved listening to it once) because _he had said something about it_ , but he didn’t. There was no point – they both knew what was going on there. So he just sat still and let the song go on to the end and drank it in, because not only was it the greatest song ever written it was the greatest song ever written and Spades Slick – unlikely piano virtuoso – was playing it. In an empty house, with just the two of them.

“Interesting song choice for you,” Sleuth concluded at the end, coughing and clearing the sudden lump out of his throat and not looking at Slick. “I’m surprised.”

“Yeah whatever.” Slick wasn’t looking at him either, just filling the silence with chords and snatches of melodies.

“… Thanks.” Slick just grunted while Sleuth sat there next to him, smiling faintly, watching his hands – each a sharp contrast to the other, just like everything else about Spades Slick – as he rambled around the black and white bank of keys.

If Sleuth had been surprised by the last song, the next coherent string of notes totally bowled him over. It wasn’t an obscure song, but for Slick to play it was so uncharacteristic, so unlike him …

 _No_ , Sleuth thought. _No, this is just like him._ Because Spades Slick wasn’t the kind of person to talk about something like this, he probably didn’t even have words for it in his vocabulary, but he could say things with that damn piano that he’d never dare or bother to actually frame with words.

“Just let them talk,” Sleuth half-sang, almost under his breath. “If they want to –”

“You’re fucking terrible at singing.”

“Listen, Slick, if I want to sing –”

“Nope.” _Gosh_ , Sleuth thought in the sudden closeness, _he really is great at piano, to be able to play like that and kiss me at the same time_.

Eventually he did have to stop playing though, which was a shame, but Sleuth was more concerned with getting his arm around the skinny, bony set of shoulders, and feeling the warm press of Slick’s frame against his body, and tasting the lingering traces of bourbon and tobacco and – faintly – licorice.

“I thought you were fucking off,” Slick asked, although his hand was firmly clenched around Sleuth’s old tie, faded and frayed but stalwartly still a hideous shade of green.

“Was I?” Sleuth nipped at Slick’s lip, and then kissed him, slipping his tongue in between those two serrated rows of teeth. “Huh.” He pulled back and trailed down to Slick’s throat, kissing and nipping while Slick hissed through his teeth and arched his back, pressing his chest into Sleuth’s. “Can’t imagine why I would. Can you?”

Slick twined his arm around Sleuth’s back and wound his fingers into his hair. He opened his mouth to speak, and Sleuth kissed him on the neck, biting a little on the backside of it, and Slick choked back a moan before grunting, “Beats the hell out of me.” He leaned back down and kissed Sleuth again, his hand at the front of Sleuth’s trousers, fingers playing across the belt buckle. “We got all this fucking bourbon, might as well – unf – stay a while.”

Sleuth smiled and slid his hand around Slick’s back, under the shirt and jacket, and traced the scars he found there while Slick jerked his pants open and simultaneously sank his teeth into the soft skin of Sleuth’s collarbone. “Might as well.”


	21. Midnight Crew, Slick is sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "how about um.... slick catches a cold and it's everyone who suffers for it?" - Anon

Today you are robbin’ a bank, which is fine by you. You were gettin’ bored with just sittin’ around at the Casino anyway, waiting for something to happen. You _know_ the boss was gettin’ bored too, ‘cause he had that look to him, and even Droog started lookin’ a little wistful when the armored trucks would rumble by in the streets.

So sure, you’re cool with the bank robbery. And you’re cool with today.

What you’re not cool with is the boss comin’ along today. Because the boss is real sick. Sneezing, coughing, talkin’ funny, the whole nine yards. Droog tried to talk him into stayin’ back, of course, but Slick won’t hear it. He just staggered out to the van in his winter coat even though it’s only just October and laid down in the back, groaning.

“Boss, maybe you should wait in the van,” you suggest, sitting in the back with him.

“It won’t take long,” he protests, and you just frown down at him. He rubs his eyes and groans again when the van bounces over a pothole. “Would you be careful, you stupid fuck?” he snaps at Droog, who’s doin’ the driving today.

“Should have stayed home,” is all Droog says. You’re not sure how he gets away with that; only times you ever tried talkin’ back to Slick have always ended bad for you. Not like he hurts you, bad - you’re too big for that - but he gets real nasty excludes you for a while. Droog, though, the worst Slick ever does to him is snarl at him.

He doesn’t even do that now, though; he just groans again and rolls onto his side. He looks real bad; if he were Tavros you’d put him in bed and make him eat some chicken soup or something. “Boss, you don’t look so good,” you hazard.

“Mind your fucking business,” he grumbles at you, so you sit back up and don’t look at him ‘cept outta the corners of your eyes, just to make sure he’s alright.

He picks up a little at the bank, but it don’t last. You’re watching the hostages with him, while Droog and Deuce bomb the door off the vault off and get the valuables. “Guess crime doesn’t have sick days,” you hear one of them mutter, when Slick sneezes and looks miserable. You spin your TV antenna, just to give ‘em an idea of where their place is.

You’re kinda thinkin’ you’re worried though, fifteen minutes later. Fifteen minutes is a long time, and you’re not even worried about Slick as much now, even though he’s pale and got his coat pulled around him as tight as it can go. You’re worried about Droog an’ Deuce, although Droog’s there so they’re probably fine, but mostly you’re worried about the cops.

“Boss?” you ask, quiet-like, and Slick looks over. “You wanna -” but Droog strolls out like he was waitin’ for a cue back there or somethin’. Deuce is behind him, and they both got their hands full of bags of loot.

“Oh, thank Jesus,” the boss sighs.

“You should be resting, dear,” says some old lady that was there depositing her loose change. You cough so you don’t laugh, and Slick glares. “You’ll spread it to everybody if you’re not careful!”

“Shut the fuck up,” he rasps at her, and he starts backing up, sweeping the rifle back and forth across the group of people. You know he ain’t feelin’ good ‘cause he almost always uses knives or that horse hitcher, but he said he didn’t have the energy today.

Droog stops by the front door and frowns out the windows. “We got cops.” He waves to a side door. “Move.”

The four of you start running - Droog leads the way ‘cause he knows the layout - and you pick up Deuce ‘cause his legs just aren’t long enough to keep up. You’re almost there when you take a minute and think about pickin’ Slick up too, ‘cept he’d probably stab you, even now.

Then again, maybe not. He looks like hell.

The side door leads to an alley, and Droog vaults over the wooden fence at the back of it, real graceful. You give Clubs and the rest of the loot a boost while Slick weakly hauls himself up the boards.

“Stop right there, you two.” You turn around and shit, it’s a couple cops. Young guys, by the look of it, but they got their hands on their guns. “We got some questions for you,” the one says.

“Fuck off,” Slick starts to say, but you cut him off mid-sentence when you grab him and hold him out in front of you. He’ll be real pissed about this later, but you’ll take your chances.

“I’d be steppin’ back if I were you,” you tell them, holding Slick out like a shield or a weapon. They do, when he tries to yell and starts hacking instead. “‘Less you wanna get sick. This new mayor don’t pay sick days for you guys, either,” you add. They take another step back.

“Get your paws off me, Boxcars,” Slick snaps, but there’s not a lot of energy to it an’ you’re havin’ a hard time feelin’ threatened.

“Is he threatening us with a weapon? Like … like a biological weapon?” the one cop asks the other, whose only response is to shrug.

You ignore them. “We weren’t doin’ nothin’,” you explain. “Jus’ trying to get Slick here home, since he’s not feelin’ well.”

They exchange a look. “Don’t you live that way, Slick?” One jerks a thumb toward the strip and the neighborhoods just around it.

You jump in before Slick can say anything, which you shouldn’ have even worried about ‘cause he was too busy sneezing. “C’mon, guys, that bank was gettin’ robbed! We weren’t about to walk by there, huh?” You shake your head, as if they’re crazy to even suggest a thing like that. It’s a good act. “Too dangerous.”

The first cop is staring at you, while the other one is pulling anti-microbial wipes out of his utility belt. “I bet,” Cop #1 concludes, finally. You clear your throat and nod.

“We done here?”

“I … guess so,” Cop #1 says, while #2 nods frantically and Slick groans.

“Good,” you say, and boost Slick over the fence without a whole lotta warning - he’ll be pissed about that later, but it ain’t your problem right now. Based on the noises he’s making, he doesn’t land on his feet. Oh well. “Have a good day, officers.” And then you climb the fence yourself - it only creaks a little under your weight, good fence - and thud to the ground, on your feet, right next to the huddled mass that’s Slick.

“You fuckin’ idiot,” he mumbles when you pick him up. “Put me down.”

“Relax, Boss. I’m gonna take you home, make you some chicken soup. We’ll be fine.”

He argues a little, but not a lot. You only carry him to the sidewalk, too, ‘cause you don’t want to be seen carryin’ Spades Slick through the streets and he _really_ wouldn’t want to be seen bein’ carried. “Hey Boxcars,” he says after a while.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Don’t ever fucking use me as a biological weapon ever again.”

“Worked, though.”

“Knife through their fuckin’ ribs would work too,” he grumbles, staggering off you and almost tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. “Doesn’t mean they like it.” You smirk and catch him, pulling him up as subtly as you can. You guess he has a point. “Anyway only reason I’m not stabbing you now is ‘cause I’m gonna get my revenge soon enough,” he adds.

“Yeah?”

“I coughed on you like, twenty times.” He smirks up at you, although he’s so pale and sickly-looking you’re not really scared. Then again, when you think about what he’s threatening, maybe you are. “Have fun in a couple days, asshole.”


	22. Midnight Crew, Indiana Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hmm Crackfic prompts eh? Well okay how about the Midnight Crew as Indiana Jones esq archaeologists plundering the tomb of Lord English" - badlydressedwriter

Frogs.

It had to be fucking frogs.

“Slick, they’re just frogs, they’re not even poisonous,” Droog explains patiently, ankle-deep in the things, screwing a couple pieces of a long staff together while you just fucking hang off that damn vine. Which is the way you’re gonna stay, until all those little slimy hoppy fuckers are dead.

“Boss, these are fun!” Deuce chirped, picking up one of the nasty things and cuddling it against his cheek. “Lord English sure likes frogs, I guess!”

“Shut the fuck up,” you say, as the vine swings gently. “Just open the shaft so we can get the fucking treasure out, Droog.”

“Ain’t the treasure cursed though?”

“Curses aren’t real, Boxcars,” Droog admonishes him, while the last piece of the long pole he’s been assembling slots into place. “Deuce, if you could just move those frogs away from that hole … Yes, thank you. And Slick, you have to get down: I need the light.”

“Like hell I’m getting down.”

Droog raises an eyebrow. “Would you like the treasure?”

“Fuckin’ obviously.”

“Well,” he says patiently, “it’s either hang from that vine and never get treasure, or get down here with all these not-at-all-poisonous frogs and let me open the shaft to get the treasure.”

Fuck it, you hate it when he’s right. Slowly, whimpering the whole time you lower your shoes to the sandy, slightly damp floor. The frogs hop out of the way to oblige you, before pressing back against you shoes. “Fuck me,” you whine, while Droog just smirks at you.

The he turns the pole just a hair, and a beam of sunlight previously blocked by your body hits the gold disc at the top, gets focused, and starts moving along the floor. You’re all watching with bated fucking breath, until the light stops and … nothing happens.

“Shoo, frog,” Deuce says, picking the frog off the spot where the light’s focused. “Silly.”

Then the light hits the slimy stone and things shift. Old things, stony-sounding things. You brace yourself, but nothing happens, except all the fucking frogs finally bugger off to wherever they go, you don’t care. And a shaft opens in the floor, plunging into the darkness.

“Don’t look like the safest thing,” Boxcars volunteers, as the four of you cluster around it and stare into the depths. “We don’t even got any rope.”

You wipe your hands on your pants and grin. Not far now. “We can improvise.”

You make a human chain, despite Droog’s incessant fucking bitching about his goddamn suit. “Shut the fuck up,” you snap, tightening your grip on his ankle while Clubs slides down your back and grabs your ankle. And then lets go. “Jesus fuck, Clubs!”

“Yeah Boss?”

You pause. “Are you just standing next to me?”

“Yeah! It’s not very deep, is it?” You let go, and fall an entire half of an inch. “Told you!”

“Whatever,” you snap, as Droog lands next to you and pulls out a lint roller. You grab it from him and light it on fire and, as an afterthought, step aside so Hearts can slam to the ground, cracking some of the old stone. You’re in a long hallway, dark but for the light of your lint roller, and perfectly … silent?

No, no something’s rumbling. “You hear that?” you have time to ask Droog, just before Boxcars shoves you both in the middle of the back and grabs Deuce.

“Fuckin’ run!”

You do, and when you dare to glance over your shoulder, there’s a giant fucking boulder right on your heels. Droog looks too, and then you both run faster. Droog looks like he wants to make some smartass remark, but you’re both breathing too hard, running too fast for that. Hearts pounds along behind you.

Up ahead, there’s a low ceiling; too low for the boulder. Thank God.

No, wait, you think, scratch that. It’s a door. Still too low for the boulder, and getting lower by the second. Shit, shit shit. “Dive!” you yell, and no one needs told twice. Droog rolls under the door first, loses his hat in the process, and you and Boxcars follow.

Droog barely has time to snatch his hat back before the door closes and the giant rock slams into it with a crack.

“Jesus fuck,” you pant, when you get your breath back enough and your ears stop ringing in the silence.

“Slick, I am not sure you pay me enough for this,” Droog wheezed.

“I don’t fuckin’ pay you anything.”

“Hm.”

“Shut up.” You get to your feet, stiff and sore already, fuck it. You lost your torch in the mad dash, but there’s light ahead - some red, fiery glow, and you walk toward it. You can hear the other three stumbling along behind you.

“This sure is a fun adventure!” Clubs says, and Hearts shushes him. “What’s up there?” he whispers.

“Quiet, Clubs; we don’t know,” Droog mutters.

You find out in short order. It’s an enormous fiery pit, ringed with occult symbols that you only recognize because of your … extranormal abilities and training. They’re bad ones. Real bad. You swear, because at this moment you’re questioning your judgment for coming here in the first place.

On the other side of the pit, there’s some asshole in green, and the symbols clue you in on who it is before you see him clearly. Green hat, white doll. Die. Fuck. He’s got something dark and tall in a case in front of him, and for a minute your heart races. He’s chanting, some language you’re not sure you know and anyway his stupid accent’s so thick it’s not like you understand him half the fucking time anyway. And then he plunges his hand toward the shape.

It’s a clock. He comes away with a fistful of cogs and gears. You feel kind of fucking stupid. Of course it would be a clock. You’re so pissed at yourself you don’t even flinch when the cogs and gears burst into flames and get tossed in the pit.

“Teach you to go off at four in the morning,” he snarled, and then kicked the rest of the clock into the pit. “Stupid piece of shit,” he concluded, before stalking out, hands in his pockets.

“They are all so fuckin’ weird,” Boxcars grumbles.

“There’s a ledge around the edge,” Droog sighs, and everyone looks to where he’s gesturing. “The valuables should be on the other side of the pit.”

“Good,” you mutter, slouching off ahead of all of them. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here. I can’t take much more of their weird Felt shit.”

“Can I keep the frog?” Clubs asks, and something behind you ribbits. You just groan.

You fucking hate Lord English.


	23. Midnigh Crew, Deuce gets angry with Slick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Slick pisses off Clubs and Hearts tries to calm the two down." - Anon

It wasn’t often you’d seen Clubs Deuce pissed off. I mean, you’d seen it, yeah, once back on Derse, but since then you’d never even see the guy even get annoyed since you’d all left that place. Until today, that is.

Clubs is _pissed_. And he’s pissed at Slick, which you’re thinkin’ is probably the worst possible situation you could be in the middle of. Clubs ain’t big, and in a hand-to-hand situation he’d definitely lose to Slick, no question. But you can smell gunpowder, and you can’t see the little guy’s hands, so you don’t even care about hand-to-hand ‘cause you’re pretty sure it ain’t gonna come to that.

“It’s not my fault!” Clubs was yelling, standing square and glaring at the boss. “If I don’t have a clear shot to set anything I can’t get you the blast you need!”

That was the problem, really. Slick had called Clubs’ craftsmanship, his expertise, into question. And by that you mean, Slick had told Clubs he was just as useless at explosives as he was at anything else.

You’re not surprised that Clubs is pissed. But it don’t make the situation any better, Clubs bein’ right. They’re still gonna kill each other.

Slick sneers. “Well maybe if you weren’t so fuckin’ stupid you wouldn’t need so much goddamn time to set anything.” That sets Clubs growling, and Slick’s too dumb to see he should probably just shut his damn mouth. “I swear to God, Clubs, half the time I wonder if the whole Crew wouldn’t be better off without you, I mean I’m sure Droog could handle bombs better than you can.”

He doesn’t mean it, and you know that, and you think Clubs prob’ly knows that too, but it’s the last straw. The little guy jumps for Slick, and hits him hard in the gut. They go down together, Slick scrambling for his deck while Clubs just pummels him.

You’re not really sure if you should intervene or not, but you’re not about to stand by and let your boss get his face busted by Deuce. Not good for team morale. They get along well enough most times, and you’d hate to deal with ‘em if they didn’t.

You grab both of them by the collar and haul them apart. Deuce is still swinging and yelling, and Slick looks stunned, even as the cuts from Deuce’s rings trickle blood down his face. “That’s enough, guys. Deuce. Deuce, chill.”

“Just ‘cause you’re in charge don’t mean you can be nasty!” Deuce howled, flailing wildly. Slick just blinks at him.

“Christ, Deuce,” he says finally, and then he takes a minute to poke one of his teeth with his tongue. He spits it out, then, a triangle of white on the dark carpet of the hideout. You’re not worried: a new one’ll fill in soon enough. “Fuckin’ tell us how you really feel.”

“You can be a real bully sometimes, Slick, you know that?” Deuce stops swinging, and instead just rotates gently as his hangs by his coat. “Why … Why’d you even have to say something like that?”

“Well shit, Deuce, I was pissed,” he says reaching up and prying at your fingers. You hold tight. “We wouldn’t toss you out, would we, HB? Besides, Droog’d be shit at explosives.”

Deuce takes a little breath, and you can see his lip quiver. A surge of anger jerks through you, and you find yourself clamped hard on the boss’s jacket. He’s watching you both, nervous. “I … I just don’t understand why you have to say things like that. I try hard, don’t I? And we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Slick looks uncomfortable, and you know that’s as close to an apology Deuce is going to get. Deuce knows too, ‘cause he nods, and you set them both down. Deuce trots over to Slick and throws his arms around the boss’s chest. “I am sorry about your tooth.”

“I’ll just … grow a new one …” Slick says, and then he gently peels Deuce off. “I’m sor - I mean, I didn’t mean …”

“That’s okay boss, I know you hate talking about feelings,” Deuce says. Slick just watches him for a second, cagey, before he flashes his teeth in what could be a smile or a sneer, you’re not sure, and stalks off to his room.

“…Wow,” you conclude. Deuce just smiles.

“He doesn’t mean to be nasty, he just can’t help it.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean my feelings are any less hurt. Sometimes he forgets that, I think.”

“… Yeah, Deuce, probably.” You don’t know what else to say, so you just stand there until Deuce wanders off, humming to himself. And then you shake your head, because today was the day you saw the impossible.

Today you saw Clubs Deuce put Spades Slick in his place.


	24. Mobsterswitch PI and AD, PS/SS, the Lion King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lion King + Mobsterswitched

They meet out behind a dirty bar on the west end, Scofflaw in his trademark black and Scout in the dusty used-to-be-whites that Detective insisted on. From this distance it’s impossible to hear what they’re saying, but Scofflaw looks pleased, at least, and Scout’s already got his knife out, tracing it along Scofflaw’s lapel before one or the other dives in for a kiss - it’s not clear which one goes first. The knife clatters to the pavement.

Pernicious Innovator sighs heavily and props one bony cheekbone up on his fist as he hands over the binoculars. “I tell you, Delinquent, this really stinks.”

“Oh?” Angry Delinquent leans his elbows on the lip of the building’s roof and peers through the eyepieces. “Sorry.”

“Not you,” PI snaps. “Them! Him and him … _alone_. I mean for fuck’s sake PS is supposed to be _handling_ the Company for us, not … whatever he’s doing right now with Scout.”

“Kissing him?”

PI groaned and slouched onto the ledge with a small burst of purple flame along his shoulders. “I can see what’s happening.”

“Yeah, they’re kissing …”

“And no one else has a clue!”

“Who?”

“They’ll fall in love and the bottom line is, AD, our trio’s going down to two.”

“ _Oh_.”

“There’ll be no more Twilight Scoundrels, and Scout’ll bolt on Detective.” He flipped his wrist and a pocket watch appeared in his hand. “With all their … _romantic_ rendezvous, it can only spell disaster for us.”

Down in the alley, unheard, Scout was whining. “Doing this in the middle of a fucking public alleyway, just anyone could wander down here …”

“Oh no, I’d hate to think what that might do to my reputation,” Scofflaw giggles into the nape of his neck. “Oh, _wait_ …”

“Yeah, well, some of us have some sort of reputation left to uphold.” Scout swung one arm up and around Scofflaw’s neck and used his other hand to grab that just _awful_ green tie to pull him down to eye level. Or, rather, mouth-level.

“Not much of one, I’m given to understand,” Scofflaw murmurs, between kisses. “And really, only with your boss these days.”

“Yeah, well -“

“Well screw him.” Scofflaw stays stooped, but he steps forward and presses Scout’s back against the bricks. “He can’t be everywhere at once.”

“And you know where he is?” Scout asks flatly, pulling back just enough to fix Scofflaw with a level stare.

“I know enough.” And Scofflaw grins broadly for a second before he bites Scout hard on the side of his neck. Scout gasps, his eye reflexively clenches shut, and his back arches, but he keeps his grip on the mobster.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I know he ain’t in this alley, and he’s gonna keep that up for the next half hour, ‘cause he _never comes to this part of town_.” Another deranged little laugh. “Leaves that to his Scout, his grey little Scout, all dusty and dirty and patchy -“

“Christ, do you ever shut up?”

Scofflaw pulls back, and his toothy grin is bright white against his dark skin. “I dunno. Wanna find out?”

Scout hooks his fingers through the tie this time, and he wrenches Scofflaw down before swinging him around and into some trashcans. They go flying with a cacophony of bangs and clangs, ringing through the alley and attracting absolutely no attention. Scout waits for something, perhaps someone to notice, and when nothing happens he shrugs and smirks. “I sure as hell wanna try.”

“That’s the spirit.” Scofflaw stays on the ground - the dirty alley concrete - and beams up at Scout like he’s got brain damage. Scout glares at him for a second, glances over his shoulder again, and then starts fumbling with his belt. Scofflaw’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well you’re brave.”

“Thing is,” Scout explains, already short of breath and turned on as hell, “I’m not really thinking of anything else that’s gonna make you stop talking.” Scofflaw just nods, and beams.

Up on the roof, AD is averting his eyes, while PI lazily watches through the binoculars. “See and if they start this shit tonight,” he complained, “I can only assume that his days of fielding the Meddlesome Company for us are history.”

“Yeah. Yeah I think that’ll put an end to that, boss,” Delinquent grumbled, spitting a mouthful of dip across the roof.

PI let his wrist go limp and the binoculars dropped away from his eyes, narrowed and disapproving. He didn’t need to see what was going on down there in any great detail anyhow - he’d seen plenty as it was. He growled. “Well, shit.”


	25. Slick/Sleuth, Getting old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "1. Old cranky geezers being sweet and stupid. (why am I even doing this Spike you don’t have to write this uhhh help)" - Sannam

Problem Sleuth wasn’t really sure when he’d got old. Presumably it hadn’t happened overnight – it didn’t for anyone else – but some days it certainly felt that way. In the mornings, when he woke up and sat up and everything ached, or when it took him longer to do … basically everything … or when he could hear his own knees while he went up or down stairs. The sorts of things that you don’t notice all the time, and when you do you think “surely this hasn’t been going on long? Surely it was just the other day that I could cover four city blocks in under five minutes.”

He would correct himself, of course, every time. He hadn’t been able to manage four blocks in under five minutes in a good twenty years. Well, perhaps fifteen, if you’re asking about some of the smaller blocks.

He wondered if anyone else felt the same way, as if time had snuck in one night and collected its dues and left him gray and tired and stiff the next morning. Possibly Spades Slick, he thought, when he watched Slick sometimes, although he’d never ask the man. Slick didn’t like to talk about his age, and he didn’t like to admit he’d gotten older, too, just like everyone else. He would make up excuses – hangovers, bar fights, anything convenient – for everything, it seemed like, and Sleuth would just nod along and pretend like he didn’t know that it was really because Slick was just as old and tired as he was.

And possibly also the bar fights, admittedly; he really wished Slick would slow down with those, but then again the novelty of watching some twenty-something idiot get his ass handed to him by Spades Slick – who was roughly around seventy at this point, although since Droog had died no one was keeping track – never really wore off.

“You alright?” was all he felt like risking one bitter winter morning, when Slick went to stretch and grimaced before his hand went to the stump of his other arm.

“Piece of shit hardware,” was his excuse this time, even though Sleuth knew perfectly well the hardware was fine. “Gets too cold in your shitty apartment. Maybe if you heated this fucking place.”

“Hmph.” He laid there for a while, his chin on Slick’s bony shoulder. The longer he could put off getting out of bed today, the better: it was raining – not snowing, surprisingly, although the day was young yet – and his back already hurt. His knees had been aching since yesterday afternoon, when the storm had first appeared in the forecast. Slick had had similar issues, and without ever mentioning particulars they had both elected to limp back to Sleuth’s apartment and crash out on the couch in front of some baseball game that Slick bitched at until he was drunk enough to not care how poorly the first baseman was playing.

“You hungover?” Sleuth asked eventually, as much to keep himself awake as anything.

“Nah.” Slick was still for a while – long enough that Sleuth nearly drifted back off – and then he sat up and set about putting his robot arm on.

“Early for you to get up.”

“Well I have a full fucking day of hating your guts; best to start early.” With the last wire plugged in, he flexed the fingers experimentally and laid back down, absently cautious with his movements. “Keep your hands to yourself,” he added, only a little annoyed, and then let his eye shut once more.

Sleuth did go back to sleep then. How long was unclear, but he jerked awake when the buzzer for the front door sounded. Slick just cracked his eye open and said something that maybe sounded like ‘wstfgl’. Sleuth rolled his eyes and staggered out of bed. “I guess I’ll get it.”

He had a good idea who it was: it was Sunday, and late morning, so a social call was fairly unlikely. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and jabbed the intercom on. “Hello?”

“Father, good morning. Rose and I are here; we would like to say hello.”

“Ah.” He glanced to the bedroom, and Slick’s still-limp form on the bed, buried in blankets. “Give us a few minutes?”

“Of course.”

Outside, under the overhang of the building, Rose pulled her coat a little tighter and frowned at Kanaya. “He does know it’s raining, yes?”

“Indubitably, but if I am as well-versed in his habits as I would like to think I am, being his daughter, I would hazard to presume that he has just woken up, and that he and Mr. Slick are in no state at the present time to receive guests.”

“Well he could at least have buzzed us in; by the time we make it up there they’ll be ready.”

Kanaya smirked. “Perhaps ten years ago.”

“Aha. As Mr. Strider would say, time _is_ a bitch.”

“Indeed.”

Inside, and several stories up, Problem Sleuth was buttoning up his shirt. “You gotta get up,” he told Slick, nudging the other man. “Kanaya’s here.”

“So? She’s your kid.” He rolled over. “Just close the damn door.”

“There’s no door to close: you broke it, remember?” He shoved Slick again, harder this time. “Come on, up.”

“Pretend I’m fuckin’ dead then.”

“ _No_. Up.” This time, before he got the chance to shove the other man’s shoulder very hard, Slick sat up sharply with an expression that suggested he had half a mind to stick a knife in Sleuth somewhere. But even as he sat up a wave of painful-sounding cracks ran up his back, and Sleuth ended up supporting him as he winced and twisted. “Alright?”

“Fuck off.”

“You sure?”

“ _Goddammit_ , Sleuth,” he snarled, rubbing his back and looking sort of generally miserable.

Sleuth put up his hands. “Fine, okay, whatever. Just … get dressed, I’ll buzz Kanaya in. She’ll be up in five minutes.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.”

Outside, the girls pulled the door open when the buzzer sounded, and waited for it to shut against the rain and the cold before they pulled off their jackets and shook them out in the lobby. “Take our time?” Rose suggested. Kanaya nodded with a faint smile, and adjusted her own vest before turning to fuss with the sleeves of Rose’s dress. “And do you have your itinerary for Karkat as well?”

“I am sure I have no idea what you are referring to.”

“Yeah, sure,” Rose smirked. “It’s exactly like Dr. Vantas to ignore his moirail’s weekly trip to visit their venerable parents and thus an opportunity to ensure all is well in every possible aspect of life.”

“This is purely a social call.”

Rose rolled her eyes, although she was still smiling. “Consider me convinced then.” She slipped her hand into Kanaya’s as they climbed the stairs. “How nice to be able to make those, hm? The things you miss when your parent dies a young death of alcohol poisoning.”

Kanaya frowned. “Your mother is alive and well. She lives in Pensacola, with Mr. Egbert.”

“Wishful thinking then.”

“You are terrible.”

Upstairs, Sleuth had unlocked the front door and was sipping at a cup of coffee while he waited. Slick was moving around in the bedroom – he could hear him, anyway – and it wasn’t long before he emerged into the kitchen, flashing Sleuth a half-hearted glare before pouring a cup of coffee.

“Weather’s terrible today,” Sleuth said, conversationally.

Slick just scoffed. “Could have told you that yesterday. You could have fuckin’ told _me_ that yesterday.”

“Just making an observation.”

Slick flashed his teeth and rolled his eyes before he dropped into the chair next to Sleuth. “Yeah, well, keep that shit to yourself.” He took a sip of coffee and scowled. “This coffee tastes like shit.”

“Same coffee I make every morning.”

“Yeah well it tastes like the same shit it does every morning.”

“Fine; you make it tomorrow.” Sleuth grinned. “Be my guest.”

“Fuck you, why don’t you just learn to fucking make a decent cup of goddamn coffee?”

Sleuth kissed him, quickly, and smirked. “Because it’d be a shame if you had to wait for lunch to have a reason to bitch me out.”

Slick’s expression went curiously still, which suggested he was probably trying not to smile, and he looked down at his coffee, staring intently at the swirls of steam coming off it. “Don’t fucking kiss me when I’m pissed at you.”

“You’re not angry.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“’Cause if you were you would have stabbed me by now.” A knife thudded into the table by Sleuth’s elbow, and he smirked. “Told you.”

“Yeah well,” Slick grumbled. “Maybe I don’t want to fucking upset your daughter. Shit, if I stab you she’ll probably fucking tell Karkat I’m depressed or some bullshit and I’ll never get rid of him.”

Sleuth just snickered as the floorboards outside the door creaked. “Good thinking. It’s open,” he added, slightly louder, and the door swung open. Slick pried the knife out of the table and squirreled it away somewhere – Sleuth was never sure how he did that.

“Good morning, Father, Mr. Slick.” Kanaya stepped in and smiled at the two of them, Rose on her heels.

“Morning,” Sleuth said, over the rim of his cup. Slick just made some noise that was completely noncommittal. “Help yourselves to the coffee.”

“Thank you, Father, but I am quite fine without.” Kanaya sat down on Sleuth’s other side, missing the brief and significant smirk Slick shot him and the kick Sleuth delivered to Slick’s shin under the table. There was the suggestion of something sharp and metal on Sleuth’s thigh, briefly, but then Kanaya started talking and Slick went back to glaring at his coffee.

“I admit I am impressed that there is nothing currently actively on fire this week,” she said, while Rose settled in with her own mug of coffee. “An improvement over last week. Although –” her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head a little as something on the counter behind Sleuth caught her attention. Slick and Sleuth both stared intently at their drinks. “What happened to your toaster?”

“Electrical fire,” Sleuth said, at the same time as Slick just said “Scrapple.” Kanaya looked from one to the other, pursed her lips, and took a sip of coffee.

“I see. Should I invest in another one? Perhaps a toaster oven, that could cook things other than, ah, just toast?” Sleuth noticed the hint of a smirk at the corner of her lips, and the way Slick’s grip went tighter on the coffee cup.

“Could be a good idea.” Slick kicked him again. “So how are things? The business?”

“Well enough; there have been a rash of cases lately that require me tailing possibly philandering spouses. In most cases it is nothing more than unfounded paranoia but in a few instances it has been … fascinating,” she concluded, with a small frown. “Perhaps that is not the best word for it but I am hard-pressed to find one more appropriate.”

“Revealing? Disturbing?” Rose suggested.

“Really, ‘disturbing’ would only apply to the one with the iguana.”

Sleuth took a moment to thank whatever deity might happen to be listening that he’d stepped back from sleuthing when he had. His imagination wasn’t great – certainly not as great as PI’s had been – but it was good enough that he was considering all possible scenarios involving iguanas, and he really wasn’t enthusiastic about any of them. “So, ah business is ticking over well then, good. Any –”

“I would certainly appreciate your help on a few cases,” she said, before he could finish. “However I do not have the materials with me at present.”

“That’s fine, I’ll stop by the office –”

“No, no, no need. I will bring the files by this week.”

“Kanaya.”

“ _Father_.” The glared at each other for a minute, while Slick and Rose exchanged a look that was very definitely not at all entertained. “It will be no trouble. How have you been?” Her eyes flicked to Slick. “Both of you?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.” Sleuth shrugged. “Maybe _bored_ but apparently there’s nothing to be done for that.”

“How’s the casino business?” Rose asked. Slick shrugged.

“Fuckin’ cash.”

“Good to hear it.”

Kanaya shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. “Mr. Slick –”

Slick sighed. “This is for Karkat?” She nodded. “Then tell him yes, no, fuck off, mind your own business, and Wendnesday’s fine.” He flicked the rim of his cup and smirked. “I get everything?”

“He wanted to see you Thursday instead.”

He scowled. “Well, fuck, fine. Whatever.”

Rose cleared her throat. “Has it ever occurred to either you or Karkat that perhaps you should broaden the spectrum of your conversations?” she suggested.

“Too fucking time consuming,” was all Slick would say, before returning his focus to his coffee.

“Do you have any plans this afternoon, Father?” Sleuth looked to his girl, and tried not to frown. The question was innocent enough, but the subtext running under it was sort of discouraging. _Anything you were going to do that you oughtn’t? Anything I could do for you instead_?

“Just watching football,” he muttered.

Oh, good.” Kanaya nodded. “The weather is fairly inhospitable, really; much wiser to stay in and avoid it if at all possible, in my opinion.”

“Uh huh.” He raised an eyebrow. “So what’re you doing out then, hm?”

“Father –”

“Fair question, sir,” Rose cut in smoothly. “What _were_ we doing out today, Kanaya, hm?”

“We were … shopping.”

Rose blinked, and then smiled that knowing smile, eyes narrowed. “And survey says, anybody?”

“Lie,” Slick said, a little too gleefully.

“Rose,” Kanaya said, irritated.

“Truth is, we were wandering the streets in search of _evidence_. Namely, that a little old lady was cheating on her husband and using her Sunday morning “trips to church” as a ruse to avoid suspicion.”

“Rose, those details all consist of a violation of client confidentiality,” Kanaya frowned.

“Were they a ruse?” Sleuth asked, ignoring his daughter.

“Yes.” Rose sat back and crossed her arms. “Although she’s not spending all her money on young gentlemen, which was her husband suspected. She, in fact, spends all her money at _Casino_ , at the poker tables.”

“Old lady, I would have guessed slots,” Slick said.

“I was surprised myself, but she’s quite the card sharp.”

“She counting?”

“Not that I saw.”

Slick’s eye narrowed. “What she look like?”

“ _Rose_ this is a tremendous violation of client privacy!”

Slick looked to Kanaya, who looked at the very least highly affronted, to Sleuth, who appeared to be pretty fucking entertained. He pulled a wad of bills from his pants pocket and slid it across the table toward Rose. “Fine, I’m a fucking client now, and I want you to tell me who the old lady is that I think’s counting fucking cards at my casino.”

“Mr. Slick, I am a therapist.”

“It’s causing me a great deal of goddamn psych-whatever distress.”

“You’re going to let this continue, Father?” Kanaya hissed, as Rose and Slick quipped back and forth. “This is –”

“The most fun I’ve seen him have in weeks,” Sleuth snickered. “C’mon, Kanaya, my name is still on that business; there’s no violation on confidentiality.”

“Listen, Mr. Slick, if we’re going to talk about possible roots of psychological distress in your case, I’m afraid –” she picked the bills off the table and flicked through them. “My rate is eighty boonbucks per hour. This is only two hours’ worth.” She flashed a smile. “I will need at least eight hours to _begin_ your case.”

“Smartass.”

“And you were worried,” Sleuth murmured, while Kanaya fought the smile back in favor of her disapproving scowl. “They’ll bicker for hours, if we let them.”

“Should we?”

“I dunno, up to you.” He shot her a look. “You’re the one that’s not on house arrest.”

She sighed and put her hand on his arm. “It’s not that, Father it’s just –”

“Yeah, yeah, I know; you worry.” He shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “Doesn’t mean your old man can’t look after himself, kiddo.” She shot a pointed look at the toaster. “Listen, that wasn’t me.”

“I am going to assume you allowed it.”

“Kanaya, I swear to you I turned my back for two minutes. _Two_.” He went to take another drink and then stopped, dropping his voice lower. “And you can tell Karkat it has _nothing_ to do with _anything_ other than him being a complete idiot about anything culinary that doesn’t come out of a blue Kraft box.” He sighed, exasperated. “Neither one of us is senile, Kanaya, and you’d better be grateful for that; much easier to be old and decrepit –”

“Speak for your fucking self,” Slick snapped, hardly breaking stride in the ongoing string of insults between him and Rose.

Sleuth rolled his eyes and took a sip of coffee before he went on. “We look out for ourselves, that’s all I’m saying. You don’t have to worry so much.”

She smiled a little then, and sighed. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t.”

Sleuth blinked, and then put his head in his hands. “Good Lord, I’ve raised my mother.”

“Would you like to explore the psychological ramifications of that?” Rose offered, as Slick cussed her and her ‘conduct disorder’ bullshit out.

“Rather not, thank you, Rose. How’s the coffee?”

“Fuckin’ terrible.”

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“I found it quite invigorating,” Rose said, “but regrettably I have finished the entire cup.”

“There’s more in the pot.”

“Oh, I would hate to impose.”

Slick nudged him with an elbow. “I think that’s fucking therapist for ‘your goddamn coffee is awful’.”

“I’m afraid it really is just plain English for ‘I am out of coffee and I’d hate to impose’, actually.” She smirked thinly. “Besides, I think we have some place to be, and I think the Vagabonds are kicking off against the Steelers at one.” She stood, and Kanaya followed suit. “Anytime, Slick, you call me and I will _make time_. The things I could publish about the inside of your head.”

“Over my dead body,” he said, almost too cheerful by half.

“Goodbye, Father.” She leaned down and hugged him before he could get up, and he patted her on the back. “I shall stop by with the case files later this week; thank you for your help.”

“Sure thing. Be careful out there.”

“Of course.” She gathered up her coat, and looked to Rose, who was standing expectantly next to her. “I see.”

“I haven’t the faintest as to what you’re talking about.” She put a hand on Kanaya’s shoulder and pushed her gently to the door. “Afternoon, gentlemen.” The door shut behind them.

The two men sat in silence for a while, Slick idly spinning what was alternatively a card or a scalpel through the fingers of his robotic hand. “I’m glad you get along with Rose; that girl scares me,” Sleuth said, at last.

“Eh, she’s not bad.” Slick got up, slowly, and helped himself to another pot of apparently nigh intolerable coffee. “’Sides, she gets on my nerves I’ll just fucking stab her.”

“Please don’t.”

-()-

The afternoon drifted by in a lazy sort of way, filled with football and Chinese take-out and the sound of rain on the windows of the apartment. By late that evening, long after the sun had set, they had settled on Sleuth’s bed, while the TV flickered from the game to commercials and bathed them in pale cathode ray illumination. Outside, the rain was still half-heartedly falling, although it had gotten suspiciously whiter and fluffier.

“It’s snowing,” Sleuth murmured. “Sort of.”

“Fuck it,” Slick growled. He was shuffling his deck as he lay there, idly, keeping his hands busy. “Only good thing about winter is the fucking hockey season.”

“You don’t really like hockey.”

“I like parts of hockey.”

“The fights, you mean.”

“Fuck you, it’s still a goddamn part of hockey.” He looked thoughtful for a minute. “You ever played fucking … air hockey or whatever the hell it is? Table with all the fucking holes in it?”

“Yeah, air hockey.” Sleuth shrugged and leaned over a little, into Slick. “Yeah, I have. Why?”

“Hearts and Clubs used to play that shit constantly.” He shrugged. “I never did. Kinda wanted to, but it looked dumb as hell.”

“You’d be terrible at it,” Sleuth said, thus ensuring Slick would find the nearest air hockey table within the next 24 hours and challenge all comers.

“Go to hell; I’d be amazing at goddamn air hockey.”

The cards hummed one final time, and then Slick set them aside on the bedside table, all the better to free up his hands so he could curl into Sleuth’s side. “Prove it.”

“Fine. I will; tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have ‘em bring the one Clubs used to use to my office.”

“You’re on.” He shifted just a little, enough to throw the cover over the two of them. “And I will beat you.” His knees twinged and he glanced out the window once more. “Providing we can even get there.”

“Hah, fuckin’ pansy; you’re forfeiting already.”

“No I’m not, I’m just saying it’s gonna be shitty out there tomorrow.”

“Hmph,” Slick grunted, sparing a look out at the definitely-snowflakes, falling thick and fast onto the already-frozen city. “Yeah.”

“I guess if it’s too bad we could always just stay here. Lord knows we have enough lo mein to last a week.”

“Yeah.” Slick shivered a little and moved closer. “I fucking hate winter.”

“Oh, I dunno.” Sleuth stretched as much as he could and let his arm fall around Slick’s shoulders and his eyes fall shut. “Could be worse.”

“Yeah yeah,” Slick murmured, and he sounded half-asleep himself. “Whatever, Problem Sleuth.” He yawned. “What the fuck ever.”


	26. Midnight Crew and the Felt, Road trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I guess 5! The Midnight Crew and some of the Felt (you pick), go on a road-trip together. One of the three day-er ones." - flyingbeds
> 
> If you don't want to be confused by this, I suggest you read my story 'Afterlives and Arrangements' first. :)

If you’d asked him about it, Spades Slick would have told you he was _really_ fucking sick of saving the goddamn world. Of course, no one ever asked him, they just expected him to, and like a total idiot who was inordinately attached to the fucking planet because where he, er, for lack of a better word, _lived_ , he did every time.

This time wasn’t an exception. Score one for the planet’s inhabitants, another no-hitter round for the horrorterrors. Which was great and all, gold stars all the fuck around, but it was a hollow victory, because the worst part wasn’t even over yet.

The worst part was driving back to the city with a van full of the usual idiots, plus two green assholes. The only positive part of the whole thing was that he was scoring some major fucking Demon Points or whatever, because every time they had to stop somewhere he unleashed his anger on the nearest unfortunate person in the form of truly awful temptations.

Droog was at the end of his rope too; Slick could see the way he was carrying it in his shoulders, hunched up, arms crossed over his chest, slumped in the passenger seat of the van. “I’m going to kill them, I think,” he murmured.

“Me too.”

In the back, another steady stream of ‘patty-cakes’ started up again in a terrible duet of Clubs and Clover’s squeaky voices. “How can you even _play_ that game that many times?” Droog hissed.

“Could you please stop?” Slick heard Die groan, and for once he agreed with the asshole. “Seriously, Clover.”

“But it’s a fun game!”

“Yeah, anyway!” Deuce chirped. He patted Boxcars on the arm, and the larger demon jerked awake. “Right, Boxcars?”

“Huh?”

“It’s _irritating_ after a hundred and forty rounds of it,” Droog pointed out, through grit teeth.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Droog, we haven’t played _nearly_ that much!” Clover giggled. “You’re grossly overestimating!”

“I don’t think he is, actually,” Die muttered.

Deuce sniffed. “Well I think it’s fun. Ready, Clover?”

“Ready!”

Die snapped. “Oh for God’s sake this is … just ridicules conneries, vous incroyablement stupid petite; vous êtes sans aucun doute la personne la _moins_ _ intelligente_ que j’ai jamais eu le malheur de rencontrer -“

“You wanna try that again in English, asshole?” Slick growled. He didn’t speak French, never had, but the general thread of Die’s bilingual tirade was hard to miss.

“ Revenir à l’enfer.”

“Listen, asshole, if you’re gonna insult me an’ my Crew you better have the _balls_ to be able to say it to our faces in a shitty fucking language everyone present speaks.”

“N’importe quoi.”

That was it. Between the hours of patty-cake, and this voodoo asshole’s sporadic fucking French, he was done. Without so much as a warning to Droog, he stood on the brakes, sending everyone in the van lurching forward. Slick’s seat wailed as Boxcar’s weight collided with it.

“The hell, boss?” he roared.

He whirled around, fingers digging into the upholstery. Outside the van, smoke was still drifting up from the tires, while inside sulfurous smoke and licks of black flame were alight on Slick’s shoulders. “If all you assholes don’t quiet the fuck down I swear to fucking GPI I will turn this goddamn van around and dump you back on that horrorterror and _so help me_ I will not so much as give one fucking damn about it.”

The assembled group, including Droog, blinked at him in stunned silence. “Capisce?”

Deuce was the first to speak, nodding meekly. “Got it, boss.”

“Good.” He dropped back into the driver’s seat and jerked the van into gear, driving off as if nothing had happened. Only the tense, shocked silence gave away that anything had happened at all.

“Wow Slick,” Droog muttered, at length. “Parenthood much?”

Slick jerked the wheel around and the van went up on 2 wheels as it spun a U-turn. “And you’re gonna be fucking first!”


	27. Snowman/HD, Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "5 snowman + hd" - Anon

Snowman was the biggest femme fatale in the city. She was tall, and dark-skinned, and sharp-toothed and sleek, like some kind of predatory cat. And, like a big cat, she was ruthless; she’d killed men, dismembered them, blinded them, and she’d done it all with that funny little smile that somehow made you wonder if, despite the fact that she was currently grinding a knife into your chest, perhaps she wouldn’t be averse to going out for dinner later.

That was how the stories went, anyway. Hysterical Dame knew they were … basically true, too, if only because she herself had been on the receiving end of that smile once, some time ago, but thankfully not the knife too. No, she’d just said hello to Snowman after they’d dropped their kids off at some overnight birthday party - nice, normal people things - and she’d shown those teeth and they’d gone out for drinks and, a couple hours later, a little more than drinks.

It was the smile. The jade-painted lips with the black cigarette holder and the hat full of stars, throwing her whole face into shadows, so you could only see the whites of her eyes framing those blue-purple irises, and that bright white piranha smile. And, admittedly, now that she and Dame had been spending enough time together that other parts of Snowman’s persona were becoming clear, there were other things too. The black, dry sense of humor, the cool collection in every aspect of life, and everything else. The other stuff.

Which, apparently, included the element of surprise. Dame was in the shower one afternoon, very definitely alone, when the curtain rustled a little and Snowman’s voice cut through the hiss of the water. “Afternoon Dame.”

She might have squealed. And Snowman might have laughed. The curtain twitched back. “You weren’t answering your doorbell.”

“Uh, hi.” She wasn’t sure why she was covering herself, it’s not like Snowman hadn’t seen it all before. “I must not have heard it, I’m … in the shower …”

“Yes, so I’m gathering.” She’d taken her hat off, and her coat was only half-buttoned. She raised one perfect eyebrow. “Room for one more?

“Um?”

Snowman disappeared, just for long enough to shrug off her overcoat and wriggle out of the rest of her clothes, and then she was back, in the shower. Dame blinked for a minute, but this was Snowman. They’d done this before. Well, maybe not _this_ exactly but the principle was the same, she was sure. “Shampoo?” she offered. Snowman smirked.

“You’re funny.” She draped her arms on Dame’s shoulders, the two of them chest-to-chest, Dame awkwardly clinging to her loofah, not sure where to put it now.

Dame was not really sure this is how it was supposed to go. She’d seen movies, of course, and shower scenes are always romantic and tender and steamy, and not just from the water. Neither party ever looks surprised, and certainly no one’s ever holding a loofah and standing under the stream of water, eyes pinched closed because the water is just pouring down their face and their hair is in their eyes anyway. Snowman laughed a little – she hardly ever does that, which is a shame, because it’s quite a nice laugh, really – and pulled Dame’s face from the water to kiss her.

“Sorry I wasn’t expecting you,” Dame stammered, finally, when they broke apart. “Did we –”

“You weren’t supposed to expect me.”

“Oh. Alright then.” She kissed Snowman this time, because she was recovering well from the surprise arrival, and because she could see now, and Snowman looked all the better for a little steam. Snowman kissed back, and her hands settled on the ridge of Dame’s hips, pressing gently into the flesh there.

“Dame?” Snowman said, between kisses. She plucked the loofah from Dame’s fingers, and tossed it away. “Much better.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t sure –”

“Yes, I know.” Her hand settled back on Dame’s hip, but only for a minute. Soon enough her hand had drifted southwards, and Dame was wrapping her arms around Snowman’s slippery shoulders as her knees went weak. “Easy there.”

“Sorry,” Dame whispered, leaning into Snowman’s chest and moaning a little. “I didn’t expect –” Snowman laughed again, and her fingers slipped inside Dame, who promptly went even wobblier at the knees with a choked-off little cry.

“I _know_ , Dame.” Dame could feel Snowman’s head rest on top of hers, the sharp point of her nose brushing through her hair. She looked up, and Snowman took advantage, kissing her in the water, green lipstick running and smearing off in the steam. Dame rocked her hips a little, not too much because she still had to stand, and she was quite unsteady enough as it was. Snowman was patient, though, and despite Dame’s whimpering and trembling, she set a leisurely pace, the soft pad of her sharp thumb teasing at Dame’s clit, following the shorter woman’s rhythmic swaying.

It was probably something of a miracle that the hot water was still running when Dame finished, clenching around Snowman’s fingers and gasping breathlessly. She fell into Snowman’s chest, her cheek pressed into the soft flat space between her breasts, rivulets of water dripping off her nose and chin as he got her breath back.

When she was recovered enough to straighten up, she did, and threaded her fingers through Snowman’s wet hair, pulling her down into a kiss. “Thank you,” she muttered, her lips hovering half an inch off the other woman’s. “I wasn’t –”

“Expecting that,” Snowman finished for her, smiling that smile that would stick in your dreams like a porcelain burr. “I know.”


	28. Spades Slick, Alcoholics Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "#2. slick attends AA after much prompting and knife throwing. everyone in attendance wishes they never quit drinking, or at least that slick died on the way over." - Anon

Your name is Diamonds Droog, and honestly you’re just trying to do right by your moirail. He needs help, you think, because he drinks too much and it’s probably bad for him. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that last week, while the four of you were lifting the contents of the Felt’s auxillary garage, he tripped and hit the ground unconscious in a puddle of antifreeze, which you got on your suit as you carried him out to the van.

Alright, so maybe it has something to do with that.

A lot.

But either way, this is going to be to his benefit, you tell yourself. He probably shouldn’t drink so much anyway.

The entire room is focused on the two of you, haunted and intent, staring through the steam of their cups of cheap brewed coffee. “Fuck you, I don’t have a problem,” Slick snaps, crossing his arms and glaring at them. The woman next to you smiles and leans over.

“Are you two new?”

“He is,” you say, smooth and clipped and low, inaudible to everyone else in the room. “I’m just a friend.” You manage a small smile, although if she blinked she might have missed it. “Moral support.”

“Oh, bless you, well here’s a binder with meetings and events,” she beams, and passes the binder to you.

“It’s okay to be in denial,” the leader of the group is saying to Slick, who has his legs stretched out in front of him, reclined in the plastic chair. “But you can’t begin healing until you admit you have a problem. _You are not in control_.”

“Fuck you, I’m totally in control.”

“Your friend is concerned for you! You have to admit you cannot control your addiction and hand the responsibility over to a higher power.” The leader is earnest, leaned forward on the table with her hands folded in front of her. “None of us are in control - the addiction is too powerful! Only when you appeal to the higher power, and allow them to guide you past the addiction, can you _heal_. And look at your friend! He _wants_ you to heal.”

Slick stares at her for a while, and she smiles and nods back at him, agreeing with thoughts unspoken. “I’m not in control,” he says finally, tone flat.

“No! We aren’t.” She looks like she’s about to say something else, but before even you know what’s going on Slick’s out of his seat and leaning on the table in front of her, the tip of his sharpest knife hovering a hair’s breadth from her jugular.

“Slick …” you sigh.

“In a minute, asshole,” he snaps, before he turns back to her and shows all his teeth. “What’s that sign across the room say?” he asks, voice low and darkly excited.

“W-what?” She looks from his eye to the sign, and back to him. “Pancake breakfast.”

“Uh huh. And there’s some shitty clipart under it.” He leans in. “What’s it of?”

“P-pancakes.”

“Yeah, I though so too. Are those pancakes very big?” She just whimpers and leans back from the knife. He follows her and smirks. “Hm?” She shakes her head. “Yeah, they’re not.” He eyes her up for a long minute, and you debate cutting in here, when he flips the knife around, grabs it by the tip and, without looking, flings it across the room, between two men sitting stunned at the end of the table. It thuds right between the clipart pancakes’ eyes and vibrates.

“Now,” Slick said, spinning from her to the rest of the room, “I think that took a fucking _huge_ amount of goddamn control, don’t you?” Terrified nods ripple around the table. You sigh and set the binder in the empty chair next to you. “I mean, I didn’t even give the bitch a paper cut!” The leader whines and cowers a little behind the table. Slick spins on you. “Alright, asshole, let’s get outta here.”

You stand and flash your fangs at the woman who gave you in the binder. “He’s not ready.” She just shakes her head and mouths ‘no’ before you walk out. Slick’s already in the parking lot outside the church, hunched over, hands in his pockets. As soon as he catches sight of you, he’s got his fingers twisted into your jacket and he’s snarling in your face.

“That wasn’t just free fucking coffee you jackass.”

You grab his wrists and push his hands away. “You got me,” you say. He glares up at you, panting, probably debating killing you, and then he spins and stalks away.

“Fuck you,” you hear him say, over the sound of him wrenching your car door open. “I need a fucking drink.”


	29. DD/PI, Genderbent PI gets pregnant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Numero 9! Requesting genderbent PI being pregnant and Droog quietly freaking :PPP" - liz-of-all-trades

Your name is Diamonds Droog, and you are flipping the fuck out. Not overtly, that’s not your style, but subtly. Your hands aren’t shaking - barely - but you can’t stop your foot from twitching and you can feel the tiny, tiny microspasms in your left eyelid, invisible to the eye but obvious enough to you. “You’re sure?” you ask, and the teacup doesn’t rattle as you pick it up off the saucer.

“The t-t-test said so,” your girl says, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders and brushing some curly blonde hair behind her ear. “I ha-had to check.”

You sigh, and take a sip of tea. The caffeine probably isn’t helping, but the taste calms you down. “Positive?”

“I-I read it m-m-myself.” She looks to you, shyly, her watery blue eyes swimming with tears. “Y-you’re handling this w-w-well.”

You shrug, but you say, “We should double-check.”

“I- I don’t think those tests make mistakes,” she says.

You nod, and shuffle your feet a little, to keep your right foot from tapping. “Not to question you,” you say slowly, “but do you mind if I see the test?”

She nods, and stands. You follow her to the bathroom. “I understand,” she says timidly. You’re still not shaking when you pick up the stick, or when you see the two pink lines. It’s when you see the readout that says ‘Many babies!’ that your hands start trembling, and you’re losing control, and your knees buckle and you hit the tile floor and -

\- Your name is Diamonds Droog, and you’re jerking awake with a shout, in a cold sweat. Pickle Inspector, in the bed next to you, jerks awake too, and almost falls out of bed. “W-w-what?” he yelps, when you seize his rail-thin bony chest, wild-eyed and pale, bathed in the moonlight spilling through his window. “What?”

You gulp, and slow your breathing. Flat chest. Flat, skinny, chest. “Nothin,” you manage, and you slump back into bed next to him. “Nightmare.”

“Oh,” he says. “W-well there is a theory t-that some-sometimes our n-nightmares are p-p-portents of things t-t-to come -“

You put your hand over his mouth and take a breath, eyes closed, your other hand rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Not now, PI. Just … just go back to sleep. Please.”

He nods, and in a few minutes he does, his breathing slowing, one skinny arm draped over your chest. You think it unlikely that you’ll sleep for a while, but soon enough your thoughts go fuzzy, and you’re drifting off, thinking of cuesticks and cards and anything that might make another nightmare less likely.


	30. Slick/Sleuth, Koalas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by yet another picture by Sannam (http://sannam.tumblr.com/post/11272025710/koalacling-jpg)

It’s a Tuesday night, and you’re both … well, you hesitate to say drunk as hell, because you’re still upwardly mobile and Slick’s still more-or-less coherent, but you’re teetering on the line between drunk as hell and merely trashed. You’re at your place, and you’ve been knocking back the drinks all night, because Slick’s pissed about how his last robbery went and he needed it, and you were happy enough to oblige him.

You’re calling it though; you have to work tomorrow, and you can’t afford to spend the day hungover and curled up on the floor behind your desk with a cheap pair of sunglasses and your hat pulled down over your eyes. So you push yourself off the couch and sway on your feet for a second, hands outstretched for balance. Slick’s watching you, slouched back, boneless-looking in the couch cushions, hand loose around the neck of the whiskey bottle in his lap. “Where’re you goin’?”

“Bed,” you say, almost managing it without hiccupping. You stagger half a step to your right and your suspenders swing around your knees. Slick leans forward, deceptively quick, and grabs one.

“Why?”

“’Cause …” You think. “’Cause I got work in the morning.”

“Fuck work.”

“Nope. Need the cash.” You take another step and look down your feet, fiercely concentrated on them; they weren’t cooperating like they ought to be. Then the green and tan checker pattern of your linoleum catches your eye and you start laughing.

“What?”

You point to the floor. “When … When Kanaya was little, we’d pretend the, the white ones were lava. Was fun.”

Slick flounders around on the couch for a minute and ends up on unsteady hands and knees on the cushions, peering down at your floor. “Lava?”

“Y-Yeah.” You cock your head. “You never played that game with Karkat?”

“Fuck no.” He’s still staring. “Lava.”

“Yeah,” you say, or try to, but before you know what’s happening he’s got his arms around your shoulders, draped there between you and the couch. You don’t fall, somehow, but you do straighten up to balance, and frown at him. “What?”

“The fucking floor,” he says solemnly, “is lava.” And then he hauls himself up and swings his legs around your waist, clung on like a koala or something. You grab him, and brace yourself, because it would probably not be good if you dropped Spades Slick, even if he is really drunk.

“Oof,” you say, and stagger back a step. He’s not a tall guy, but he’s pretty heavy, considering, and your balance isn’t 100% right now. “Get down,” you tell him, or try to, but you’re laughing halfway through the first word because he’s leaned in and propped his chin on your shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

“So’re you, asshole.” He sits back, hips grinding into your ever-softer stomach, and then he kisses you. It lasts for a while, and it’s nice; he keeps the teeth tucked away for this one, content to let you do the work. You break off eventually, and mock-frown at him while he lets his forehead rest against yours.

“Alright, you gotta … Uh, get down,” you remember, as your back twinges.

He shakes his head. “Nope. Lava.”

You really do frown this time. “Well fine.” And then you jostle him without warning, so he’s draped over your shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and you manage to stagger down the hall. Between the two of you, you deflect off all the walls, and make it to the bedroom without falling or dropping him. _Small miracles_ , you think.

You dump him on the bed and put your hands on your hips. “Safety,” you declare, before you collapse face first next to him. He throws an arm across your back and rolls closer, until his face is buried in your shoulder, his breath hot and sweet like absinthe on your neck.

“My fucking hero,” he declares, quietly, before his brain finally gives up the ghost and closes up shop for the night. “G’night.”

You wriggle around a little, into a position that isn’t going to make some part of your body hurt for three days following, and pull him with you, until you’re finally comfortable with his sharp warmth in your side. And then you sigh, and close your eyes, and drift off with his hair tickling your face and a smile aching at the corners of your mouth.


	31. Crowbar/Die, Mobsterswitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "9 - Mobsterswap your FeltTP? By which I mean policemen Crowbar and Die, I'd love to see something about their relationship, how it started or A SNAPSHOT OF THEIR KAWAII LIFE or just anything." - creepyold-kit-hands

Metropolis Central Police Department has some very, very strict rules on what you are allowed to do on a plainclothes stakeout. They have rules on when you are allowed to eat, how you are allowed to procure the food _to_ eat, whether or not you are allowed to drink coffee, and how you are expressly _forbidden_ from sleeping, regardless of the length of time you end up being stuck there. They have rules that aim to make sure you don’t get caught, no matter what. They have rules to make sure the officers stay safe and unobtrusive and observant.

Rules, of course, are not _made_ to be broken, but they wouldn’t be rules without a little leeway. Rules were made to be bent. If you didn’t want them to be bent, you’d make them laws.

At least, that was how Officer Crowbar felt, while he leaned back in the driver’s seat of the plain brown Charger and unwrapped his sandwich. His partner, Officer Diego, ‘Die’ for short, looked horrified. “This is peak operating time for this dealer,” he hissed, putting the binoculars down. “You can’t eat right now!”

Crowbar - first name Jesse, not that anyone ever used it - looked up to the back of the supermarket and reflectively sucked a shred of lettuce from between his teeth. “Doesn’t look particularly busy to me.”

“Well it could _get_ busy,” Die snapped, slumping back in his seat and looking through the binoculars again. “Jesus, how often have we been on stakeout and suddenly everything goes straight to shit?”

“Once or twice,” Crowbar shrugged, before taking another bite of his hoagie. “And honestly,” he went on, spraying his partner with half-chewed food, “shit has never gone down by the dumpsters behind the Pathmark.” He swallowed. “Down by the docks, or in the slums, yeah, maybe, but not here.”

Die just glared at him as he took another bite of sandwich and smiled happily. “I’m reporting this to Snowman, you see if I don’t. It’s a _clear_ violation of bullet point four on the rules an -“

“Yeah, whatever.”

“ _As your senior officer_ -“

“As your partner who lets you skim off the top of our busts,” Crowbar said, muffled through a mouthful of bologna, “I think you _won’t_ report it because then she’ll give you another partner and then where are you going to get your pot? God forbid you have to buy it.”

Die shot him a sidelong glare. “Fuck you.”

“Besides,” Crowbar went on, balling up the sandwich wrapper and tossing it over his shoulder into the back seat, “you _know_ you’re just being pissy right now because you lost the fight for the TV last night.”

“It was the season finale of _The Big Bang Theory_ , Crowbar.”

“And I TiVo’d it so you can watch it tomorrow, Christ.”

“Why couldn’t you TiVo your stupid baseball game then, hm?”

Crowbar rolled his eyes. “Because it’s impossible to avoid hearing the score for the game at the station, whereas _no one_ is going to spoil _The Big Bang Theory_ for you.” Die just glowered at him, and turned back to the binoculars. Crowbar leaned across the front seats and kissed him on the cheek, smirking all the while. “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly.”

“That is a blatant violation of bullet point eight -“

“Come on, Die.” Crowbar stretched and ended up with his arms looped around Die’s shoulders. “Just relax. We’re in a car behind a Pathmark - if we weren’t cops what the hell else would be be here for?”

“Buying drugs.” Crowbar took the binoculars from him and kissed him. Die kissed him back, although he’d be damned if he stopped scowling for it.

“Or?”

“Stealing drugs.”

Crowbar sighed. “I love you, Die, I really do, but sometimes …”

Die kissed him and cut him off. “And I love you, Crowbar, but if you don’t shut up and stop distracting me we are going to miss the deal that is about to happen.”

“Huh? Really?”

Die looked smug as he snatched the binoculars back. “Really.” He leaned his elbows forward on the dash, still smirking. “And maybe if you’d been following regulations, Crowbar, you would have noticed.”

Crowbar flopped back into his seat, scowling, watching the dealer count out a wad of cash. “Regulations are made to be bent, Die.”

Die patted his knee. “You keep telling yourself that, partner. Let me know how it works out for you.”


	32. Droog+Slick, Formal attire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "10. Droog talks Slick into attending a formal event for a special occasion. Slick half-ass tries to behave himself but it goes poorly." - Anon

“Slick, stop.” You don’t sigh, but you do bat his hands away from his tie and fix it as the elevator continues down to the banquet floor.

“Get off,” he snaps, and tugs the collar and the tie back away from the scar sliced across his neck, a souvenir from a run-in with Die at Felt mansion that he refused to talk about. “Can’t fucking breathe in this shit.”

“Slick it’s the same suit you always wear.” You grab the tie and ram it tight, pinning it in place before he can pull it loose again. “Just with a tie.”

“Yeah, well, I hate ties.”

“Obviously.”

You roll your eyes skyward as the elevator chimes to signal you’ve reached the proper floor. And then you jam the ‘door closed’ button and turn to glare at him. “This is a formal dinner,” you say, curtly. “Just like in Derse. Which means you are _not_ going to do anything ridiculous.”

“What, like making out with the fucking Queen in an alcove?”

“ _Yes_. Or getting drunk and stabbing someone.” You glare down at him, and he scowls back at you. “Clear?”

“Fuck off, Droog, I’m leaving after an hour anyway.”

You wished you’d believed him. And you wished you weren’t surprised when, four hours later, you were holding him back from some society lady that was watching him with no small amount of horror. “There is fucking _nothing_ fuckin’ good abou’ … uh,” he paused to take another drink. “‘Bout _Derse_. Fuck that place!”

“I’m just saying that their cloning system -“

Oh good lord. “Ha! Fuck that _shit_ ,” Slick said, wriggling in your grip. You nearly lose him, and at this point you’re not sure if he’d be able to catch himself and stay on his feet if you did. “You - you know fuckin’ _anything_ about that shit?” He took a swig and you gently tried to pull him away from her, but he’s got that stubborn drunken strength that even Boxcars has a hard time with. “Oh, _sure_ the sciencey shit is great, what-the-hell-ever, but how’d you think it feels to wake up when you’re 16 and get a fuckin’ … fuckin’ _lobtomy_ an’ everything you knew about was a fuckin’ _lie_ an’ … back me up, here, Droog.”

“Slick, I think it’s time to go.” You look at the woman and do your best to look apologetic, which is unfamiliar for you. “He’s got views.”

“Yes, I can … see that.”

At that point you decide to cut your losses and just scoop him up, while he flails against you. You duck out a side door and drop him on the rug, and then stand over him, arms crossed, scowling. “This is not doing anything ridiculous, then?”

“Fuck you, did you hear that bitch?” He fumbled for his drink, which was spilled on the carpet half a food away. “Like Derse ever did anything decent for the damn world.” He found the glass, and found it empty. “Aw.”

“That does not excuse your behavior.”

Slick’s staring past you, up at the ceiling. “I wanna climb into that chandelier.”

You roll your eyes, and then pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fine. Fine, Slick, just stay in this room. Do what you want. I have one more hour of this, and then I’ll deal with you.”

An hour later, and ‘dealing with him’ entailed getting a ladder to get him down out of the chandelier, which he somehow managed to scramble into. He was reluctant to leave, comfortable in the brass arms and and swinging strings of crystals, but you pull him out of it eventually, all the while swearing to yourself that going forward, whenever possible, you will take one of the other two to these stupid things.


	33. Droog+Inspector, Punched into next week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "10 c: And umm, Droog getting punched two weeks or something into the past/future due to a scuffle with the felt, and then ends up meeting PI please?" - Anon

You’ve never been punched by Cans before; Boxcars has, but he’s the only one. So the feeling takes you by surprise: it hurts, obviously, because he is _punching you_ , but then there’s the weird nausea and jerking feeling in the pit of your stomach and the way your vision just _swims_ and suddenly you’re airborne, somehow.

You blast through the vortex of space time and rip out some time later, you’re not sure how far, and you’re still airborne, briefly. That state of affairs ends when you collide at roughly shoulder-level with some tall, skin-and-bones man with flyaway blonde hair that you glimpse briefly before you bowl him over and the two of you go tumbling into an alleyway.

You’re the first on your feet, although possibly that shouldn’t be the case. Your head is reeling, and you stagger into a wall, slumping up against the bricks until the world stops tilting and you’re not seeing at least two of everything.

The man you collided with is sitting, leaned back against the opposite wall, re-adjusting his hat and ogling you with rather more interest than you’re strictly comfortable with. “Y-y-you’re D-Diamonds D-D-D-” you wait patiently. It takes awhile before he manages your last name, and then he just stares at you, mouth slightly agape.

“Yes,” you say slowly, picking your own hat off the ground, when you trust your balance enough to step away from the wall. “I, ah, apologize.”

“Oh, oh, n-n-no trouble.” You watch him for a minute, and then offer your hand to him. He gets to his feet and it looks like he’s unfolding rather than standing; he’s all limbs and joints, and he’s _tall_. Taller than you, even. “W-Were you p-p-playing with t-the space-t-time continuum?”

You stare at him. “No,” you conclude, finally.

“Ah.” He looks disappointed. But then he gets this look to him, like he’s just now remembered something very important, and he grabs your hand again, shaking it weakly. “So sorry, sorry, how v-very rude of me. M-my name is P-P-Pickle Inspector.”

You recognize the name and nod by half an inch. “Of Team Sleuth?”

“Y-yes! Yes.” He catches sight of something on your shoulder - it’s a rip in your suit jacket, you know it is, and you’re _really_ not happy about that - and frowns. “Oh, oh no. I’m t-terribly sorry.”

“Not your fault,” you say tightly, because it’s true. It’s Cans’ fault, and you’ll make him pay for it later. Which reminds you … “Would you happen to know the date?”

“Y-yes, it’s the fifth of J-June.” Two weeks, then. Slick would be frantic, providing he was still alive. You should probably check on that. “Oh dear, that is _quite_ the tear.” He pushes the loose fabric back into place and you’re very careful not to flinch. “I b-believe it can be m-mended, though.”

“Probably not,” you say, because you’d always know you’re wearing a mended jacket, and it wouldn’t sit right with you.

“N-No, I’m quite sure it could be. I w-would be happy to try, of course; I am so t-terribly sorry for getting in the way like that.”

You blink. “I think I may be at fault,” it all you can think to say, as he ogles you and motions for you to follow him.

“It hardly m-m-matters, doesn’t it? You would n-not have t-torn your jacket had you n-not collided with me. I feel r-responsible. P-Please, let me try to m-mend it, have a c-cup of tea.”

You think about it. You’d rather not, you’d like to get back to your Crew and your house and your daughter, but on the other hand this Pickle Inspector looks like he might dissolve into a nervous wreck if you don’t acquiesce, at least for a cup of tea. So you compromise. “Do you have a phone, Inspector?”

The first thing you do when you get back to his tiny, dingy little apartment behind his office is call Slick. You learn everything’s fine, Aradia’s been staying with Hearts, and the rest of the Crew got out of the scrap with the Felt with no worse than a black eye for Boxcars and a broken hand for Slick. So you say you’ll be by the hideout in a couple hours, and you hang up.

The second thing you do is try the tea Pickle Inspector made, and you almost spit it out in shock, if that wouldn’t be a total bastardization of the stuff. It’s _glorious_ ; Darjeeling, you think, distantly. You just sit there for a minute, staring at the faded, chipped cup, and then you sip at it, carefully, certain not to waste a single molecule, to savor every bit, because this is legitimately the best tea you’ve ever had in your life, and you don’t even like Darjeeling. You make polite conversation, too, while Pickle Inspector hunches over your ruined jacket, although, you reflect, if he’s as good at sewing as he is at brewing tea you may well be able to wear the jacket again.

He’s not, you’re unsurprised but oddly disappointed to see, when he hands it back to you. It’s awful, the worst botch job you’ve ever seen, and if the jacket wasn’t ruined before it certainly is now. Scotch tape is involved. You refrain from saying anything to him, because he’s been a decent host, and that _tea_ , but it’s a near thing. You’d rather wear a ripped jacket than this disaster.

“Good as new,” he says, with a wan little smile. He’s stuttering less, now you’ve been talking, which is nice.

You barely manage half a smile. “Very nearly,” you say tightly, and shrug the ruined, awful thing on. A band-aid flutters off it, to the floor. “Thank you for the tea and, er, for the jacket.”

“Of course, any t-time.”

You think about that for a second. And then you do the third thing of note, after arriving at PI’s apartment.

“Are you very busy on Tuesdays?”


	34. Dignitary+Jack, Friendship and bacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "17. Jack stops by Derse to visit Draco. They end up squabbling over destroying everything versus having a kingdom to run. Then Jack wants bacon." - Anon

It’s been a while since you’ve seen Jack in person, not on the Walls. And it’s good to see him, yeah, but you didn’t expect him to be so … hairy. Or feathery. Or drool-y.

He’s your friend, but you find it all rather distasteful.

Plus, he’s covered in blood, and he’s ranting and raving and flinging his arm around and droplets of the stuff are flying off his fur, and you’re wearing your best suit. You’ve _been_ wearing it, now you think of it, for a while now. You don’t remember how long, which isn’t like you. Quite contrary to your nature, you yawn.

“Are you even listening?” Jack snaps, whirling on you and peering closely at your face, eyes narrowed to slits. “I fuckin’ grace you with my goddamn presence and you’re gonna sit there and fuckin’ yawn?”

“Sorry,” you say, and try to sit up straighter. “Don’t know what came over me.”

He’s ranting about how stupid Prospitans are, just standing there while he runs his sword through them, when you have to stifle another yawn and blink furiously to keep your eyes open. You think he doesn’t notice - he’s a self-centered bastard, and that’s not changed since he became the Sovereign Slayer - but he stops again, and though he looks upset, you can see the undercurrent of concern there. “The fuck is the matter with you, Draco?”

“Nothing.” Your radio chirps behind you, and some underling announces the arrival of the chief economist, here to talk about the plan for the cloning labs going forward. You tell the underling to let him wait. Jack’s still looking at you, ears flat back against his head. “What?”

“Since when do you do goddamn meetings? That shit was my bag.”

You choose your words carefully, because he’s a volatile man … dog, whatever. “Well, Jack, you’ve been otherwise occupied so it’s fallen to me to manage the kingdom in your absence.”

“The economist is the fuckin’ bitch’s job.”

“And she’s dead.”

He thinks, and then looks at you, suspicious. “Who else’s job’ve you been doing?”

“Mine.”

“So you’ve been doin’ the jobs of two fuckin’ suits and the Queen, may she rot in fucking hell?”

You nod, and stifle another yawn. “I’d appreciate any help but I can understand how mass genocide could be time-consuming.”

Jack snarls. “Go to hell, Draco, it needed done. War wasn’t gonna end anyway until all the fuckin’ monarchs bit it.”

“ _But they didn’t_ , Jack,” you groan, your head in your hand. You’re frightfully close to losing control and saying something without thinking it through first, so you snap your mouth shut with a click. Jack’s still glaring though, and he licks his chops, probably without meaning to.

“You still on about Brute?”

“ _You aren’t_?” You glare at him, shoulders tensed through your exhaustion. “He was our friend, Jack, and he was part of the Crew! And now he’s dead and you’ve got the Droll off on some stupid mission, who knows when _he’ll_ get back, and I’m sitting here running a goddamn country while you, what? Show everyone your stabs? Very nice stabs, Jack, round of fucking applause!” and then you click your teeth shut again, because you’re yelling and you’ve said way too much. Jack’s staring.

“Fuck you,” he says, blinking, but he doesn’t grab for the sword in his chest, which is better than you expected.

“Sorry,” you grumble, and spin your chair around to the fenestrated walls, lighting a cigarette and leafing through a packet because it keeps your hands busy and makes you feel better. “Forgive me for questioning you.”

A pair of black wings hems you in, and you can smell him behind you. He smells like wet dog, which is one of the worst things you can imagine. He’s probably shedding on your tunic. “So what?” he sneers. “You want some fucking help now that we’re down a few, is that what you’re saying?”

“Listen, Jack,” you say, because you can feel the sword’s hilt brushing up against your back, “I’m sorry. I’m tired and I’m stressed and there’s just a _lot_ of this and -“

The wings disappear and he drops into the chair next to you, propping his elbow on the desk and resting his chin in his hand. “Guess I can spare some time, now all those fucking graveyard stuffers are dead.”

“That’s - Really?” You look over. He shrugs, and flicks an ear. “Oh. That’d be nice.”

“Yeah, whatever, asshole.” He looks down at the banks of paper, and you can see him almost sigh, but instead he says, “I’m starving though. Gonna need some fuckin’ food.”

“Like what?”

He looks a little sheepish, and you almost laugh. He glares. “Fuck you. But, uh … any chance of some bacon?” He licks his lips again, and snarls at you when you snort and spin your back to him to hide the fact that you can’t stop laughing. “Fuck you! But yeah, crispy bacon, with fuckin’ gravy and maybe a steak and …” he slurped, and you hear him stand up abruptly, although it’s surprising you can still register anything, you’re laughing so hard. “Fuck you Draco, I’ll get it myself.” He brushes past you and shoves your shoulder, although there’s not maliciousness in it. “Be back in ten.”


	35. DD/PI, GPI meddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "17. Pickle Inspecter, godhead duties. Droog. Fluff." - cavalierdemar

From the day He ascended into heaven, and seated himself on the right petal of the Lotus, and brewed himself a pot of Ten Wu tea, Godhead Pickle Inspector had a very firm opinion on how things should be done. Namely, he was very certain indeed that he should never, ever interfere with the natural order of things in the universe. He could oversee, and ogle, and look upon all he liked, but direct interference was right out.

He’d followed his decree, too, more or less. Sure, here and there he might play games with creation, or nudge just a little, this way or that, if no other option was apparent, but for the most part he was an observant but hands-off deity. It just seemed the best way.

But this, this was wrong. Very wrong. The balance of the world was upset, in its way, and it needed to be corrected.

The Godhead was aware of his past, of course, and his time as a mortal. Less aware, after the split, but he kept up with himself, out of passive interest. He was aware of the tall, dark man, with the diamond pin on his coat, and of the way the diamond-pinned man and the Godhead’s original self became cordial, and eventually comfortable, with one another.  And he was aware when his original self died, if only because the original floated up to his Lotus to inform him.

“But what of D-Droog?” he asked his Godhead self, looking altogether uncomfortable in the angelic get-up he’d wound up in.

“In time,” the Godhead said.

Pickle Inspector looked uncomfortable, eyes downcast. “I d-don’t think that will be g-good enough.”

GPI smiled more broadly, and picked his original self up in one massive blue hand. “In time,” he repeated, and released the newly-minted angel back to his duties.

The original Pickle Inspector was slightly resentful regarding ‘in time’. There was no specificity, no concrete resolution to his question. It was unsatisfying and troubling, and he spent the greater part of the next couple decades wondering if ‘time’ was up yet. He complained about it to Problem Sleuth exactly once, but that had just sent _him_ off sulking about seeing Slick again, so he kept his anxiety about ‘in time’ to himself and resolved himself to patience. It wasn’t as if he was at risk of running out of time, anyway.

Of course, when they finally did run into the two familiar demons, lurking behind a dumpster in Midnight City, of all places, all the anxiety evaporated, and the years of waiting for ‘in time’ to roll around seemed inconsequential now his arms were wrapped again around Droog’s slim shoulders and he could smell Droog’s familiar cigarettes.

“Funny coincidence, us being in the same city,” Droog murmured into PI’s hair.

“D-d-direct orders. From the top.”

“Hm.”

It wasn’t _direct_ interference, GPI reasoned, above. It was … well, alright, it was fairly direct, but it wasn’t as if he’d picked either one of the two up and dropped them on top of one another. Hell could have relocated Droog at any time. They _hadn’t_ , and well, he had passed the order down to relocate PI, but …

But it didn’t matter, watching PI refuse to let go of Droog, and the demon just stand there and smoke, his arms draped all over PI’s shoulders. Whether that was to facilitate the smoking or just to embrace the thinner man was unclear, but it hardly mattered, because they were happy.

GPI watched, and nodded, and then poured himself another cup of tea for a subtle job well done.


	36. Aradia, Uncool Dads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "15. :> Something involving Droog humming or singing "I'm A Member of the Midnight Crew" by Eddy Morton in the shower." - xelphite

Your father, you think, is probably one of the most embarrassing people on the planet. Oh, sure, most of the city’s running scared of him, thinks he’s this icy figure in a nice suit that’s about as likely to ignore you as he is to break your skull open with a cuestick, but they’re wrong. You, as his daughter, with 13 human years of experience to back you up, know for a fact that your father is a total loser.

Okay, so he’s in the mob. Yeah, right, have they _seen_ the mob he’s in? Your friends’ parents are in the mob too. It’s a mob of dads. Weird dads, one of whom loves romance novels, one who drives a car with three wheels like it’s normal, one whose first answer to any problem is to stab it, and one who’s your dad. And whatever, they rob banks or get into fights with other gangs, but that’s not cool. It’s illegal, and anyway you’re pretty sure they do these things in the least cool way possible, because you’ve seen them try to accomplish tasks together and you are always embarrassed for them.

And yes, he’s in a band. A _jazz band_. Jazz isn’t cool, not anymore. Maybe it was when your daddy was a kid or a clone or whatever he was, he doesn’t really talk about it much so you’re not sure, but these days jazz is just kind of lame and only old people like it. And your dad plays it, which makes it worse. The only grudging allowance you’ll give him in the band membership regard is that he plays the saxophone, which you guess is sort of cool. But they don’t sing, and none of them play guitar, and they wear suits to play music. Sometimes rock stars wear suits you know, yes, but they do it ironically and they’ll have their jacket undone or a scarf for a belt of a ridiculous top hat. Your dad wears his suit totally seriously, like he does every other day of his life.

Sometimes you wish he’d sing with his band, even if that would make the entire fact of his existence even more humiliating for you than it is already, because at least then you wouldn’t have to hear him sing at home. He’s terrible at singing. You glare at him sometimes, but you’re pretty sure that just encourages him, and he’ll pick some awful song that’s probably older than he is, not that you think that’s an easy feat. The worst one is the one that’s about his gang, or a gang with the same name; you’re pretty sure he saves that one for when you’re especially exasperated.

He’s totally OCD, which drives you up a wall. Not about cleaning the house, even though it’s always neat and tidy, because someone comes in every day and makes sure that’s the case. No, about clothes; not a single frayed thread, not a fold out of place. When you were younger you just figured that’s how everybody was, and you ironed the folds out of your clothes and folded them neatly and put them on hangers. But now you know it’s weird, so you leave your clothes in piles in your room. When your daddy asks you if you _really_ have to rebel like this you tell him you’re not rebelling, you’re being normal and he just doesn’t understand how weird he is. He usually just sighs and walks away and you glare just in case he didn’t realize how serious you are.

Sometimes you feel a little guilty, because even though he is a giant weird loser he is your daddy, and he feeds you and helps you with your homework and sometimes when he thinks you’re not going to notice he sneaks into your room and hangs your clothes up. But then you come downstairs for school in the morning and he makes you go back upstairs and change into something lame and boring and not even remotely trendy. Or, worse, when you go out in _public_ together and he tries to fix your hair or your clothes in front of your friends and you could just _die_. Then, embarrassment overcomes any beneficent emotions you might feel toward your daddy, and once again you descend into despair.

He is just so. Uncool. And you’re pretty sure there will never be any helping him.


	37. Inspector+Nepeta, Make-believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "14 - Pickles inspector roleplaying with young nepeta. Cute family times plz?" - grimcrackarchaeologist

Pickle Inspector, by nature, was absent-minded and oblivious. It wasn’t that he had ADD, or any sort of problem specifically _preventing_ him from paying attention, it was just that he was so often thinking about so many things that he spent rather more time in his own head than he did paying attention to his surroundings.

The one exception to this was his daughter; even if he was _distantly_ aware of her whereabouts, he was always aware. And right now, as he was sitting at the fold-out kitchen table in his dingy little apartment, he was acutely aware that she was stalking down the hall toward him, on her hands and knees. In her mind, she was a lion, probably, judging by the way she crouched low to the scratched-up old hardwood planks and growled. Yes, definitely lion. She was quieter when she was being a tiger.

He made sure to flail impressively when she pounced on his back and roared. She growled somewhere in the vicinity of his jugular, so he slid out of his chair and to the floor and played dead while she clawed at his shirt and tie. That went on for a little bit, just a little, and then she flopped down on his chest and tucked her hands under her chin.

“And now the fierce purrr-dator naps a-furr such a satiating meal.”

PI lifted his head up just enough to re-adjust his hat. “Am I still dead?” She shushed him.

“The furr-ocious lionness is resting.”

“Aha. Yes.” He settled in to wait, having had the foresight to fall and play dead with su-do-ku book and pencil in hand. He was most of the way through the fourth puzzle when he realized Nepeta hadn’t moved, and he craned his neck to look down to her, curled up and very definitely asleep on his chest. “Aha.”

Carefully, he laid the pen and puzzle book aside, and wrapped his long arms around her, clambering to his feet in the peculiar sort of way he moved, like he was unfolding rather than just standing. She mumbled something but she didn’t wake, just stirred a little. He smiled and carried her carefully to her bed, nestled in a cave she’d made of pillows and blankets in her small room; it wasn’t supposed to be a bedroom, not originally, but he couldn’t afford a nicer apartment, so he’d made it the best bedroom he could, and Nepeta had made it indisputably hers.

She was still asleep when he pulled her blanket over her and tucked her stuffed cat into her arms. She just wasn’t old enough yet to forgo the midday nap, despite her protests; she always tired out by dinnertime. Especially, he reflected, as he pulled the cord for the lightbulb and left her to sleep, when she was so very busy stalking her various apartment-dwelling prey all day.


	38. Slick+Karkat, Learning to drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ahh I love all your stabdad fics. Slick teaches Karkat how to drink like a real man. Karkat's a whiny bitch about it and can barely hold his liquor. I would say Slick waited for him to be a respectable age to try alcohol for the first time, but that doesn't sound like something he would do at all. Umm... number 13." - Anon

Spades Slick wasn’t the most attentive parent, and that was putting it mildly, but, he reflected, one Friday night, you’d have to be some kind of crustacean to not notice how upset his kid was. The first clue had been the slamming doors, which wasn’t unusual. The second had been the stifled sobbing, which was. He waited outside Karkat’s door for a minute, just to make sure, and then he knocked.

“Kid?”

“Go away!”

Slick scowled at the door and stopped, hand hovering half an inch away from the doorknob. Probably something to do with his stupid little fucking girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend or whatever she was. Broke up with the kid right before school started for the fall, and left him an insufferable mess for a month. He’d been better, but this had the earmarks of a relapse, and Slick had kind of been hoping to go out and play with the Crew, not stay in and listen to his kid cry until he wore himself out in front of some shitty Julia Roberts movie.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing! Go away!” He opened the door. “ _Dad_!”

Karkat was curled up in his beanbag chair, eyes red and wet with tears of the same color. Slick leaned on the doorknob and frowned. “The hell is the matter with you this time?”

“Dad shut up.” He sniffed, wiped his face on his sleeve.

“This about that girl?”

“ _Dad stop_.” He sniffed again. “Just leave me alone.”

Slick didn’t sigh, but he did snarl a little. “Kid, you can’t mope about that girl for the rest of your damn life. You gotta deal with that shit.”

“I am dealing with it, just leave me alone.” He caught Slick’s eye roll and bared his teeth. “Fine, how do _you_ want me to deal with it? Get wasted like you do?”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

Karkat drew himself up and tried to look as defiant as he could with tears running down his face, from his spot on the beanbag chair. “Fine. Maybe I will. What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Finally teach your ass how to drink,” Slick snapped. If one could sum Spades Slick’s parenting style up in one pithy phrase it would be ‘Call ‘em on it’. If Karkat was bluffing, fine, but Slick was going to challenge him first. They watched each other for a minute, Slick ready for Karkat to make some excuse, Karkat struggling with whether or not to accept.

“Fine.” Karkat stood up, and brushed past Slick on the way downstairs. “Probably the only thing your drunk ass is gonna be able to teach me.”

“Language,” Slick snapped, pulling the kid’s door shut behind him.

Once in the kitchen, Slick settled on bourbon for Karkat’s first alcoholic excursion; a little sweet, smooth, not too heavy. He sloshed some into two glasses and set one down in front of Karkat. “So’m I supposed to taste it or something?”

“You’re gonna taste it.” Slick shrugged. “Just drink it.” Karkat sloshed back a mouthful. His face twisted up and he coughed, but he swallowed.

“This shit stings!”

“Well yeah. And don’t fucking swear around me, Christ.” He tipped back his own gulp of liquor. “Makes me feel like a negligent parent or some shit.”

Karkat rolled his eyes. “Well yeah,” he mumbled, in a spot-on imitation of the gangster. He took another cautious sip of bourbon. “So what, this is how you deal with your problems? You just drink? What then?”

“You’ll know.” Slick smirked over the rim of his glass. “Keep drinking, you’ll know.”

He was careful not to drink more than Karkat. Wouldn’t do to outdrink the kid, not on his first time. And anyway, he couldn’t have, not without a death wish, because Slick’s alcohol tolerance was considerably higher, and for him to get drunker than Karkat before Karkat, he probably would have had to start drinking hours ago. Karkat had just finished his second bourbon and was already a few sips into his third when the verbal floodgates opened, and he’d started spilling out everything that happened to swim across his brain. Slick was sitting back, amused, and a little stunned, for once in his life at a total loss for words.

”- ‘cause it was like we were _flying_ , Dad, like we were _flying_ but we weren’t we were just like, running really fast … ‘cause if you don’t run really fast ‘n gym class the teacher’ll make you run around the gym in your pants an’ there’s _girls_ in the class at the same time, Dad. _Girls_.”

“Uh huh.” Slick had never been 14, not the way Karkat was. He sort of vaguely remembered his server-generated fictitious childhood, but he wasn’t sure how prominent girls had been in it. Probably not very. The Queen probably wouldn’t have stood for it. But he _had_ been 16, and he felt fairly certain that being around girls, even if you were half-dressed, would not have been considered a negative point in anyone’s book at that age.

“‘N, ‘n _Terezi_ ’s in that class,” Karkat went on, suddenly horrified. “All smelling at me’n _Dave_ , that fucking - freaking - girlfrien’-stealing _jackass_.” He coughed, and took another swallow of bourbon. “Like male donkey. M’not swearing.”

“Uh huh.”

Karkat leaned forward on the table and stared at his drink. “I bet … I bet her mom told her to break up w’me. ‘Cause isn’ that something she’d do, Dad? Isn’ it?”

“Probably,” Slick admitted. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Karkat nodded, gulped down what was left in his glass, and then looked imploringly up at Slick. “S’empty.”

“Yeah, that happens.” Karkat reached for the bottle, but Slick picked it up and held it out of his reach. “You’re cut off.”

“ _Noooooo_.” Slick snorted as Karkat sprawled across the table and reached both hands for the bottle. “ _Dad, nooo_.”

“Kid you’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow. You don’t wanna feel like shit tonight, too. Trust me.”

Karkat looked horrified all of a sudden. “M’gonna … have a _hangover_.” He put his hands on his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “ _Noooooo_. Dad, _why_?”

“You’ll be fine, kid. We’ll get Chinese food or something, perk you right up.”

Karkat laid on the table for a long time, and Slick wondered if he’d passed out. Three drinks, Christ the kid was a lightweight. ‘Course he was 14. Maybe that was a little young. He finished his own drink and capped the bottle off before Karkat spoke again. “This’s way better’n stupid _homecoming_ , Dad. With stupid _Terezi_.” He yawned. “M’sleepy now though.”

Slick crossed the room and slipped his hand under Karkat’s shoulder. The kid could stand, sort of, in a sort of hilariously wobbly way, and he managed to do so for all of seven seconds before he flopped his arms around Slick’s shoulders, slumped face-first into his chest, and then beamed up at his guardian. “Hi.”

“Yeah, how ‘bout you sleep this off,” Slick suggested, trying desperately not to laugh. It was his kid, after all. Wouldn’t be right to laugh at his own kid, not when he got him this drunk in the first place.

Karkat managed to get his feet underneath himself and staggered off toward the office, still mostly leaning on Slick. “You’re so _smart_ , Dad.”

“You don’t wanna sleep in your cocoon thing?”

“S’upstairs. What if … what if … I could fall down them and _die_.” Karkat spilled onto the couch, dragging Slick with him in some semblance of a hug. “You wouldn’ want _that_.”

Slick squirmed, but Karkat had him pretty well pinned. “Probably not,” he said diplomatically, trying to worm his robot arm between himself and the kid.

“No, you _wouldn’_ , ‘cause you’re my Dad an’ you’re pretty good at it sometimes.”

Slick paused. “Thank you?” he guessed, as Karkat squeezed him in a rib-crushing hug.

“I love you, Dad. You’re jus’ … great.” And with that said, he passed out.

Slick blinked at him for a minute, wriggled as much as he could, failed to escape, and sighed. “Move, kid,” he grumbled, but Karkat was out cold, and already drooling. “Euch, Christ, I thought you were done with that shit when you were four.” He gingerly clicked Karkat’s mouth shut and tried to escape one last time, but the kid was bigger than him now, and had him pinned awkwardly, and short of shoving Karkat onto the floor the options were pretty limited.

So rather than that, he fumbled around in the cushions for the remote, clicked on the TV, and settled in to wait.


	39. Midnight Crew+Kids, Trick-or-Treating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "13- DD, SS & HB... entertain CD's prodding to take the kids out trick or treating... " - Anon

“This is stupid,” Karkat informed his father, and everyone within range of his voice (roughly 30 feet). Aradia, too, was rolling her eyes.

“Daddy, I hate to complain, but I’m inclined to agree.” She looked up to Droog, who just shrugged. “Trick-or-treating is for babies.”

“You kids want candy or not?” Slick snapped, taking a belt from his flask. He shoved Karkat in the back, up toward the house. “Don’t get the kind with the razor blades.”

Karkat shot a glare at his dad over his shoulder before he pulled the sheet down over his head, re-adjusted the eye holes, and stalked up the path after the other three. “They look so cute,” Deuce sighed, the antennae on his bee costume bouncing around as he moved.

“Boss you mighta asked for a white sheet for yer kid. I got a few,” Hearts said reproachfully. “Dunno about race-car ghosts.”

“Fuck you, it was the only old sheet I had that didn’t have blood on it.”

“Droog, what’s Aradia supposed to be?” Deuce asked. “Why does her skirt have so many holes in it?”

“She tells me she’s supposed to be dead.” Droog frowned. “Personally I’m fairly certain she just wanted an excuse to cut holes in her clothing. She’s rebelling.”

The assembled three looked to Droog, and then looked very quickly away, mostly because they were all trying not to laugh. Even Slick couldn’t laugh at Droog in public, not without getting a cuestick to the face. “Cuttin’ holes in her clothes, huh?” Boxcars rumbled, voice even despite the fact that his shoulders were shaking imperceptibly. “Sounds pretty rebellious.”

“We’ll be having words later.”

“When Sollux gets angry with me he makes my computer explode!” Deuce beamed. “I’m so proud of him - I don’t know how he does it without black powder!”

The kids were trooping back down the sidewalk by now, Tavros excited and bubbly, Aradia haughty, and Sollux and Karkat moping along side-by-side at the back. “You get any Snickers?” Slick asked, not waiting for Karkat to answer before he grabbed the pumpkin-shaped bucket. “They gave you an apple?”

“Apples are good for your teeth!” Deuce said, patting Sollux on the back.

“Thankth, Dad, I’m thuper exthited now.”

Slick peered at the apple for a second before pitching it back toward the house. Droog said something to stop him, but barely got it out before the apple sailed straight through the front window with the clatter of broken glass. “Apples ain’t candy, asshole!”

Droog just sighed. “Well done, Slick.” The front door opened, and the owner of the house stepped onto the porch, irate. “Is the van far, Hearts?”

“Just around the corner, boss.”

“Are we going to another neighborhood then?” Deuce asked, as the kids rolled their eyes and strolled off, back toward the van. Droog grabbed Slick’s jacket and dragged him - still screaming at the homeowner about apples vs. Snickers bars - along.

“You know, I rather think we’ve enough candy for one night,” Droog said smoothly. “I suggest we all go back to the hideout and watch a movie instead. I believe _Hocus Pocus_ or some other … seasonal thing is on.”

Aradia smirked back over her shoulder. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that that man called the cops, would it, Daddy?” She smiled sweetly.

“Of course not, Aradia.”


	40. Mobsterswitch, MC stands for Monocular Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "13 - Mobsterswitch: MC stands for Monocular Company (depth perception is for the weak)" - trexila

When you’d formed your Company, you’d known Demo came with a glass eye. A firework accident when he was younger, he told you, and it hardly held him back at all, unless you needed him to judge how far away something was. He was absolutely right; as far as things holding him back in the Company went, the eye was the least of your concerns. It was what was behind it that worried you, sometimes.

But Demo was a good team member, and you learned from experience that the one eye thing wasn’t a big deal, at least know with him. So when you found Scout one morning, oozing from his face, cold and soaked to the skin in an alley, you weren’t worried about getting him to a hospital to save what was left of his eye. Getting him to a hospital to save what was left of his immune system, yes, but the eye was a loss, and you were pretty sure he’d be fine. And he was: after a few weeks of adjustment and recuperation, he was back to his normal, borderline hostile self.

When Peccant Scofflaw got a hold of you though, that was when that shit started getting ridiculous. “An eye for an eye” he’d claimed, with that hare-brained logic he always used. You didn’t blame Scout in the aftermath of that - no, no you were _very_ careful not to blame Scout - but you didn’t blame Innovator either, which was troubling. You probably should have been upset with Innovator, very upset, and you thought about that for your whole first night at the hospital. You were furious and you were going to actually yell at him before you killed him, but then he walked through the door to your room and collapsed into the plastic-coated hospital chair and apologized shakily for thirty minutes before you told him to stop, and that you weren’t upset.

That was troubling.

But even then you went home and straight back to your Company, because there were cases to work and God forbid those three try to manage on their own. Heavy became invaluable; the three of you could guess at distances (“Alright, so it’s two car lengths, which means what, it’s like thirty, forty feet away?” followed by Demo’s inevitable “Gosh, Boss, you’re awful good at math!”), could drive alright, could survey from certain locations, but Heavy could see better than any of the three of you. A full visual field.

Until that _fucking wasp_.

“It got me right in the eye, Boss!” he wailed, sprawled across the back of your van, bouncing a little as Scout drove hell for leather to the nearest hospital. “Not the eyelid, the actual eye! I can’t see, Boss!”

“Oh that’s okay, none of us can see out of one eye!” Demo contributed.

“Shut the fuck up, Demo!” Scout downshifted, wove through some traffic, blew through a red light, and floored it again on the other side of the intersection. The bulk of the hospital loomed ahead, and you just crouched next to Heavy as he wailed unintelligibly, until you got there and you and Scout dragged him into the ED.

You waited. Scout paced, hands in his pockets, Demo sat next to you, twiddling his thumbs and swinging his feet, and you just sat there with your head in your hands, because you already knew the prognosis before the doctor came back out to talk to you. This was going to be a mess.

“It’s not good but it’s not bad either,” he sighed, when he sat down across from the three of you. Scout swore. “I can save the structure, I think, but his vision … he might recover some. I did some reading - I’ve never seen this injury before, myself - and there’s no reason he should have permanent issues from the sting itself. But the wasp scratched his cornea and his lens; I’d hazard to guess he’ll develop a cataract in fairly short order. I’ll give you all the name of an opthalmologist -” he started, and then he peered at you and Demo. Scout wore a patch, so he was easy enough to spot, but you’d gone with a glass eye as well. It wasn’t _that_ noticeable - the scar caught people’s attention more than the eye itself - but now that the doctor was looking …

“Oh man,” he laughed. “Never mind, I bet you guys have one, right?”

Scout growled, but you elbowed him in the ribs. “Yes. It won’t be necessary.”

The doctor was still chuckling, as if something very funny had occurred to him. You had a horrible feeling you knew what it was. “And you guys are all detectives, right? Ha! So when people say four private eyes it’s a lot more liter - erk.” He blinked down at the scalpel sticking out of his shoulder. Scout leaned down and smiled sweetly before making a show of noticing the scalpel.

“Did _I_ drop that? Heh, butterfingers.” He jerked the thing out, while the doctor just stared. “Better get that stitched up. Hate to see you bleed through your nice white coat. Really sorry about that.”


	41. Slick/Sleuth, Working out details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "2, give Problem Sleuth a good solid physical or emotional punch and then patch him up. I dare you." - Sannam

You were an idiot, you reflect, to think that you could proceed with Spades Slick like you would with any other person you were interested in beyond the point of friendship. He wasn’t _like_ any other person. So you’d been dumb to think that when the two of you were perched on the roof of his casino one night, your right hand over his left, he’d take kindly to you saying “I think I might love you.”

The four-letter ‘L’ word. He’d bolted before you’d had the chance to close your mouth. You’d waited for a long time, on the roof of the casino, until it got cold and the sky clouded over like it might rain, and then you’d gone in and gotten lost until some employee took pity on you and showed you how to get out the front door.

It wasn’t the worst night of your life but, you think, it was definitely one of the loneliest.

You solved a couple cases in the intervening weeks. Nothing big. Some boosted jewelry, tracking down someone’s wayward kid, staking out some company’s employee for disability fraud. There was probably some puzzle shit in there too, but you’re not really sure you recall it all that well because you just sort of drifted through everything. Your mind was elsewhere, definitely elsewhere, and you’re damned if you know how those cases got solved.

You’d just rounded up the wayward kid and you were rewarding yourself - or losing yourself - with a bottle of whiskey when the knock came at your door. You waited; probably imagined it, no one would be knocking on the door to your place, not tonight. You sloshed more whiskey into your glass and almost dropped the bottle when the knock came again.

“I know you’re in there, asshole.”

You weren’t sure hearts were supposed to skip beats like that. You carefully set the bottle down - carefully, because it doesn’t do to waste whiskey - and threw all the locks off the door. A crack in the door, and a visible slip of a black-glad gangster on your doorstep. You threw the door open.

He had his hands in his pockets, his hat pulled down low over his eye. “Hey,” he mumbled.

Your mouth worked for a second before your throat caught on and managed to produce anything of value. “The hell are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to -” You slammed the door in his face. You knew what he was going to say, just like he knew what you were going to say, so you figured he’d do well to get a taste of his own medicine.

You plonked back down at your table and waited. He was quiet for a while, which was unlike him, and you wondered if maybe you’d made a terrible mistake and he’d left. But then the door opened and Slick glared at your from your threshold, his jacket sleeve pressed to his nose which was … wow. You’d broken his nose and you were still alive.

“The fuck,” he said, his voice thick with blood, “were you fucking thinking?”

You decided to play it cool, despite the fact that you were thrilled he was still there. “I didn’t say you could come in.”

Slick gaped, and dripped blood all over your floor. “You - _Fuck you_.” He was leaning on your table then, sleeve smearing blood across the surface and his nose still streaming. Onto the table, down the sides of the whiskey bottle, droplets spattering your hand. “I fucking come around here to …” he looked vulnerable then, just for a minute, and when he spoke again he was whispering, like he didn’t want anyone to hear. “To fucking _apologize_ and you just _broke my face_!”

“You’re apologizing?” you grunted, looking up from your glass. “I guess leaving me to find my own way out of your casino was pretty rude, yeah.”

He shifted and flashed his teeth at you, obviously because he wasn’t quite sure what to do here. You were challenging him, but he couldn’t stab you. Uncharted territory for him, probably. “Not … Well, yeah, it was.”

You wondered how long you should let him twist in the wind for. He was struggling for words, anything to say, and you sat there and watched for a while before you gave in and pushed your glass over to him. “I’ll get you a towel,” you sighed, and swayed onto your feet and out of the room.

The glass was empty when you got back, and Slick had a fresh coffee mug - not that he was an idiot, just that you didn’t have anything else clean - full of whiskey at your place. “It’s yours,” you told him, pushing it back to him. “Here.” You handed him the towel, but you didn’t take your hand away at first.

He sat and drank for a little, and you watched him. Eventually his nose stopped bleeding and he set the towel aside. You waited until his glass was empty, and then you waited a while longer, and then you spoke. “Sorry to freak you out. I guess you’re not -“

He kissed you. That was a surprise. You figured after he bolted out on you, left you to die on the roof for all he knew, didn’t talk to you for weeks and then broke his nose on your front door, he probably wasn’t in the mood to kiss you. Guess you’d been wrong.

“Or maybe you are?” you asked, eyebrows raised, when you broke apart.

He wiped some dried blood away with his thumb, and looked away. And then, just “Yeah. Yeah I am.”

A couple hours later, and you’re still in a fog, but not because you’re alone. No, it’s because you’re still pleasantly buzzed, and tired, and you’re laying twisted up in your sheets with the sweat drying on you, and there’s a skinny, naked gangster curled up asleep in the crook of your body and three words hanging between you, unspoken but at least, now, agreed on and understood.


	42. Droog, Raising Aradia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Repeating this now that is well-and-truly-Wednesday! 4, Droog + infant, shenanigans, possible infanticidal thoughts, etc etc etc. Droog out of his element is just eternally hilarious to me." - missingrache

The decision to keep the grub he’d found in the dumpster was not an easy one, and not one he’d come to lightly. Certainly he’d _taken_ her, when they all split off and went their separate ways with their grubs, but now that he was home he was staring her down. Her big, yellow eyes met his cold grey ones, and he thought.

On one hand, having a child was not something he was prepared for. He didn’t even have the proper supplies. He was a gangster, a killer, and a confirmed psychopath. He could easily kill the child, as the trolls had meant and failed to do, and he could put her out with the the rest of the trash he dumped in the river once or twice a week, depending on Slick’s mood. No one would know. She was so small, so weak, he could probably snap her neck with one hand.

But she was a small girl, and alone, and there was something about her … something regal. Maybe it was the eyes, so wide and innocent and …

He shook his head. That was the programming talking. She wasn’t his Queen, obviously; she wasn’t even _a_ Queen. She was just a little grub from a dumpster. He would kill her, tell the rest of the Crew she’d died of something weird; he’d have to look up troll physiology first …

She was so light in his hands, her little legs working in some grubby reflex. His right hand cradled the back of her shell, where her neck joined her body. One twist, that was it. One …

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t always override his programming, and evidently this was one such case. No matter how much he willed his hand to twist, his fingers to squeeze, he just cradled the little girl while she gurgled and giggled up at him.

“Well then,” he said, as sourly as he could.

It was a lot of trial and error. He’d never even held a baby before, and certainly not a grub, so caring for the creature was a learning experience from beginning to end. His only consolation was that the rest of the Crew was struggling through the same thing, with generally less grace than he was. Slick, certainly, with _much_ less grace; it would be a wonder if that grub survived to two.

But the little girl he’d chosen was tolerant of him, or maybe just mild-mannered in general, and his programming had the chance to come in useful for once. It wouldn’t let him hurt her, encouraged him to nurture her. He stopped being a gangster, for a while, and devoted himself to learning to be a dad.

He still considered killing her, from time to time. But eventually the urges to kill her faded to dull background, and then possibly not there at all. By the time she cocooned herself up in the finest silk, preparing to shed her larval state and assume a short version of what she would be in the future, he was actually somewhat appalled that he’d ever considered murdering her.

On the day she emerged, and toddled out of the cocoon, he caught her in a towel, wrapped her up and pulled the stray silks out of her hair while she keened and blinked at the world around her and flexed her clawed fingers. He’d have to figure out how to cut those shorter later, and she’d need to learn how to walk properly and eat with utensils and … and she would just generally be time consuming. He should kill her.

The thought was automatic but the horror that followed it wasn’t. It knocked him off guard, and he found himself blinking in the face of the young troll, who was babbling and clutching his tie for balance, him totally bowled over by the unfamiliar realization that he couldn’t kill her not because he was programmed but because … because she was his _girl_. His girl, hell, his daughter, forget species, and the fact that he’d considered killing her, ever … she was so small, so helpless, and he’d thought about killing her for convenience, when all she needed was for him to take care of her.

He suddenly understood why he’d kept finding Slick asleep, wrapped around Karkat’s cocoon, a hair-trigger away from waking up and lashing out at the slightest disturbance.

Aradia babbled something unintelligible, and pointed a claw to her mouth. Hungry, that was clear enough. So he bundled her up in his arms and carried her into the kitchen with the vague intention of chicken nuggets, even if they were greasy and crummy and sure to get on his shirt.


	43. Slick/Sleuth, Forced cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanna wanted Spades Slick/Problem Sleuth forced cuddling with handcuffs.

Problem Sleuth didn’t use his handcuffs for much anymore, not since Kanaya had gently shouldered him into grudging retirement. They weren’t the same handcuffs he’d always had – goodness no, the first pair was long gone, broken or something, years ago – but they were still _his_ , his tools of the trade, and they were a reminder of what his job had been once. He missed it, sometimes. That was probably why he still carried them in his coat pocket: he missed his job, and he wasn’t officially retired, and you never knew when a crime might occur. Whether or not he’d actually be able to arrest the perp was, he supposed, something completely different, but at least he had his cuffs.

His shiny, clean, unused handcuffs.

He sighed, laid them on his desk, shrugged off his coat, and settled onto his bed to wait for Slick.

Slick, who arrived in typical whirlwind fashion three hours later, dumped a pizza onto the bed, and kicked back onto the mattress next to Sleuth. “Fuckin’ pizza’s cold,” he griped.

“Maybe if you deemed more than one pizza joint in the entire city worthy of your business, you wouldn’t have to drive thirty minutes from there to here.”

“Or maybe your dumb ass could just move closer.”

Sleuth stared at him. “You want me to move so you can be closer to a pizza place?” He sat back. “No. Absolutely not. You’re an idiot.”

“Hmph.” The gangster chomped through the remains of his pizza slice and kicked the empty box to the floor. Sleuth, finished with his own pizza, sighed and scooted closer to the smaller man. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I dunno. What do you think?” Sleuth rolled his eyes. Slick looked sidelong to him, and then shoved him away. “Jesus, Slick, honestly?”

“I’m not in the damn mood to be your goddamn pillow,” Slick snapped.

Sleuth frowned. It had been a long, boring day, and he had been looking forward to settling down, wrapped around a skinny mobster for at least six to eight hours. He’d achieved the skinny mobster, anyway, but Slick was being difficult. “Well what are you in the mood for?”

Slick was on him in a blink, robot arm braced against the wall, his mouth crushing against Sleuth’s with a minimum of teeth. Sleuth kissed back, gently at first, and then harder as Slick upped the ante, straddling the detective’s hips and running his actual hand through Sleuth’s hair. It was nice, Sleuth thought, and not unwelcome, but he knew where Slick was going with this, and he wasn’t interested, not tonight.

“Hey Slick.” He leaned back, and looked the mobster in the eye. “I’m not –” he paused, and then something caught his eye. Something silvery and shiny on his desk. He grinned. “I’m thinking we should try something different.”

Slick sneered. “Like what?”

Sleuth slid out from beneath him and scrambled over to his desk as quickly as he could. When he turned back to Slick, the other man had laid back on the bed, hands folded behind his head. “Catch my drift?” Sleuth asked, snapped the chain on the cuffs taught.

“Mayb – _hey_.” The cuff snapped shut around his right wrist, looped around a post in the headboard and clicked tight around his left wrist. He jerked against the chain, and snarled at Sleuth. “Not my idea of where this was going.”

“We always do it your way,” Sleuth sighed. Slick frowned, and then shrugged. “Ready?”

“Yeah, whatever, let’s do this.”

Sleuth wasn’t in the mood for anything, but thankfully Slick was easy enough to satisfy. Time had tempered him a little, but he was still a selfish bastard, and Sleuth knew he wouldn’t give a shit how Sleuth got him off, as long as it happened. So Sleuth obliged him in a bored sort of way, tugging his pants down and closing his mouth around him, sliding up and down Slick’s shaft until the mobster’s hips jerked hard and he groaned and went limp in the bed. He laid there in a haze for a while, while Sleuth got up and made a show of looking for the keys.

“Not the most creative use of handcuffs,” Slick muttered, eventually. “You done?”

“’Course not.”

“Good.” His eye was closed, his bare chest rising and falling as he breathed, half-asleep in the afterglow. When Sleuth collapsed into bed next to him, however, and snuggled up against his side, he stirred. “Sleuth, what the hell?”

“I said I wasn’t done.” Sleuth cast an arm across Slick’s chest and shoulders, and nuzzled his face into the crook of Slick’s neck. Slick wriggled away as much as the cuffs would let him.

“What the fuck is this?”

“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he sighed happily, following Slick as he twisted and tried to escape.

“What? _Cuddling_? Fuck this, I don’t do this.” Slick snapped his teeth at Sleuth, an inch away from him. “You wanna cuddle you can fuckin’ wait for me to fall asleep ‘cause then I don’t really give a shit.”

“Slick, honestly, it’s the least you could do.” Slick writhed a little more in his grasp, but he quieted soon enough, Sleuth ending up sprawled across Slick’s chest, his chin propped on the smaller man’s collarbone. Slick was glaring at him. “This is hardly the worst thing that could be happening to you right now. Just go to sleep.”

“No.”

“Well then enjoy the situation or something.” He closed his eyes, but Slick twisted his body a little, just enough to make Sleuth supremely uncomfortable. He sighed, exasperated. “ _Slick_ , really.”

“I hate this.”

“Why don’t you just _try_ to enjoy it, hm?”

“You wanna tell me what the fuck is enjoyable about this?”

“Fine.” Sleuth propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at Slick for a minute. Then he pulled Slick closer to him, and prodded him half onto his side, the pale pads of Sleuth’s fingers drifting across Slick’s dark skin, poking here, pressing insistently there. Slick complied, more or less, and didn’t complain much. Eventually, Sleuth and Slick were chest-to-chest, Slick’s messy hair tickling the taller man’s face, his forehead pressed into Sleuth’s cheek. As a last measure, Sleuth detached Slick’s robot arm, leaving it handcuffed to his flesh-and-blood wrist. Slick didn’t move much even then, other than to slide the stump of his arm out of the prosthetic and prop it up on Sleuth’s shoulder in a half-baked grasp.

“Thought you said you weren’t crazy about this,” Sleuth breathed into the messy head of hair.

Slick readjusted himself, closer still to Sleuth, and easily slid his left wrist out of the cuff. Sleuth woke a little, blinking at the empty cuffs even as Slick wrapped his good arm around Sleuth’s torso. “I ain’t.” Slick trailed off for a little while, his breathing slowing just as Sleuth’s was. “Wasn’t. I dunno.” Sleuth pulled the blanket up over the two of them, and Slick sighed, as contented a sounds as Sleuth had ever head him make. “Could grow on me, I guess.” He yawned, and swallowed sleepily, just before he dropped off. “I guess.”


	44. Slick/Sleuth, Droog/Inspector, Mobsterswitch, Double date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "4 - Crackfic prompt: Mobsterswitched PS/SS DD/PI double date." - maybeitsavirus

In some universes, this might qualify as a double-date, you reflect, although in your opinion, this universe is definitely not one of them.

Sure, you and Scout had been offered drinks and sure, you were drinking them and the tone seemed light. That was double-date enough. Scofflaw was bending Scout’s ear to some story about his deplorable sister, and Innovator was just smiling weakly at you from behind his teacup.

You shifted around, relieving some of the pressure of the straps pinning you to your chair, and ignored the rattling of the chain that was shackling you to the metal table as you picked up your own cup. “Very good tea, as usual,” you complimented him.

“Oh! Oh, uh, oh. Thank you.” He looked genuinely pleased at that. “It’s a new blend; the man at the tea shop assured me it was very good, but I wasn’t sure …”

“No, it’s lovely.” You took another sip, bending down as much as the straps allowed, until you could actually bring your cup to your mouth without bumping against the chain of the shackle. “Not too sharp.”

“I-I’m glad you like it.” He beamed, and then caught you rolling your shoulder around in the straps. “Are they too tight? I did say I’m sorry about the restraints, didn’t I? Oh, dear, if I didn’t -“

“No, you did.”

“Oh. Oh, good.” He sagged a little, relieved. “Anyway, I do apologize for their presence, but since last time, and the fiasco that that turned into, I think you understand their presence.”

Detective nodded. He did remember last time, and so did Scout; that was why when he’d come to, Scout had been screaming and twisting in his bonds about how he liked being able to see and leave his other eye the fuck alone. “Yes, I suppose I follow your logic there.”

“Follow his - you fucking traitor, there is no logic here!” Scout snapped, still fighting his bonds just as fiercely as he had when Detective had come to. He’d been manacled up tighter than Detective had, and Scofflaw was holding a drink out to him, straw bobbing in the bourbon. “I’m not fucking thirsty you asshole!”

“That doesn’t seem to matter when it’s just you and me,” Scoff pointed out. “Seems like you just drink, regardless.”

“Yeah well when it’s just you and me I can use my hands!” Scout snarled ferally through his teeth.

Scofflaw frowned, shook his head, and brandished his right hand, waving his four fingers at Scout. “When it’s just you and me, you don’t try to exact revenge for things that _aren’t even my fault_.”

“Would you two stop,” Innovator snapped quickly, and then he looked surprised that he’d done it. “P-please. It’s v-very rude.”

“Well to be fair I also find the restraints somewhat off-putting,” you contributed. “I apologize, Innovator, but -“

He shook his head. “N-no, no I understand.” He set his teacup down - it was empty - and smiled sadly at you for a blink before his bony shoulders heaved with a massive sigh. “Well, I suppose we’re finished here anyway.” He reached across the table and unlocked your shackle with a slim silver key. “I trust you can see yourselves out.”

“Thank you, Innovator.”

“Shoot him!” Scout snapped.

“Scout, he’s being polite enough to let us go peacefully,” you respond, evenly, looking Innovator straight in those watery violet eyes. “It would be incredibly rude to shoot him now.”

“Thank you,” Innovator mouthed, before he grabbed Scofflaw by the shoulder and the two of them phased out with a choking, swirling cloud of shadow. When the smoke cleared, you unfastened your own restraints and set about Scout’s.

“What’s _with_ you and him?” he grumbled, stretching out.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, mildly, pulling the key to his cuffs out of the sugar bowl. “What’s with you and Scofflaw?”

He glared at you. Then, hands freed, he grabbed the bourbon glass and slurped the rest of the drink through the straw. “None of your business.”

“Hm.” You straighten, and smooth your suit out. “And by that token, I believe my business with Innovator is none of yours.”


	45. Die, Voodoo doll shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "5! Die gets drunk and does crazy shit with his voodoo doll, ending up SOMEWHERE ~~~MYSTERIOUS~~~" - Anon

When Die decides to have a few drinks (which happens rarely), Crowbar takes his doll away. The doll never goes far - no telling what might happen, after all - and Die keeps the pins, but from when Die starts drinking to when he sobers up, the doll is somewhere safe, usually Crowbar’s pocket.

There is a very good reason for this: the issue came up early in Crowbar’s tenure as a Felt member, before he knew Die very well. Die started drinking with the rest of them in the Felt’s stocked bar, although he never spoke. That was par for the course, as far as Crowbar knew; Sawbuck had told him gently within the first few days that Die hadn’t spoken to anyone in at least seventy-five years, and not to take it personally. Crowbar didn’t, partially because Die was quiet and didn’t bother him and whether or not he spoke was immaterial, as well as because Itchy was giving him _so many_ things to take personally that Die’s silence was the least of his concerns.

A few hours and drinks later, and Crowbar was slouched across the bar with the voodoo man on his left. “So - so _what do you do_?” he forced out, slurred and wavy but more or less comprehensible. “Like, like I see, uh, that’s a nice doll.”

Die nodded and the corner of his mouth twitched up in a gesture that was clearly intended to approximate a smile. “Timelines,” he said, and Crowbar nearly fell of his stool.

“You talk!” Die shrugged, and then he pulled a pin out of his hat. He held it out to Crowbar, who examined it reverently, without touching. White, with an orange stripe down the middle. “Eggs?” Die nodded, and then pricked the doll with the pin, and vanished.

“Woah!” Crowbar spun around, but there was no sign of Die anywhere in the room. But then, in a blink, he was back in his stool. Quietly, he handed Crowbar Eggs’s hat, bloody and coated in what could charitably described as ‘organic material’. Crowbar was surprised, because he’d been pretty sure Eggs didn’t have very much of that between his ears. “Did you kill him?” He looked up.

Die shook his head, and took a sip of his drink. “Then - then he was dead?” Nod. “You stuck that pin in and ended up somewhere where Eggs is dead. You … you can jump timelines …” His brain churned, through the booze. “You can go where someone’s just died.” Die nodded, and although his usual drawn expression didn’t really go anywhere, Crowbar figured he might have looked pleased. “Cool. Hey -” he pointed to one of the pins. “Can you do like, like multiple pins?”

Another nod. Crowbar giggled. “You know what you should do? You should … you should pick some combination that’s _crazy_. Haha that’s what you should do!” The other man looked nervous. “No, come on, some weird mix! It’d be like, it’d be interesting.” He frowned at the pins. “Like … like Stitch. And, uh, and Cans and uhhh, and _Itchy_ and …” he trailed off when Die’s hand drifted to Stitch’s pin. “Definitely Itchy. I fucking hate that asshole.”

Die smirked, and he plucked Itchy’s pin from his hat band. “And - no, no, wait! - do fucking Fin and Trace and Stitch and … and fucking Clover, stereotypical little asshole …”

Die held up his hand, full of pins. Enough. He held his doll with his other hand, considering it. Then he looked to the pins, and to Crowbar, and he snickered, which was a totally awkward sound coming from him, right before he jabbed the doll with Clover’s pin and vanished.

Crowbar waited. He poured himself another drink, and he waited more. Eventually, the sun peaked over the horizon, and the haze of alcohol dissolved with it, and Crowbar realized through the headache and the sudden sinking feeling in his stomach that he very possibly had just killed one of the assholes he was supposed to be managing.

So he went to bed and figured he’d break it to Scratch later. No sense getting killed first thing in the morning, when the day was still young. Besides, a raging hangover was gearing up inside his skull, and he’d hate to be executed feeling like that.

He slept until mid-afternoon, and woke up with less of a headache and a considerably higher level of anxiety and dread. He dressed, and resolved himself to speaking to Stitch first. The old tailor might have an idea, perhaps, or maybe he’d just kill Crowbar before he even had to go talk to Scratch at all. Either solution would be preferable.

He was winding through the mansion, only slightly lost and bewildered - better every day, too bad this would be his last - when he passed the open door to the bar. And he was mentally cursing himself when the crash of barstools and bottles came from behind the doors. He froze, and then spun.

Die staggered out of the bar, and Crowbar couldn’t help but stare. Die slumped up against the door and giggled, and then caught sight of Crowbar and shot him a drunken thumbs-up. One of the feathers ringing his hat drifted to the floor, along with a length of paper streamer and a sodden mass of silly string.

Crowbar gathered his thoughts. “Where … where the _fuck_ were you?”

Die just smirked and pushed himself back to his feet, the multitude of plastic bead necklaces he was wearing clattering as he moved. He brushed past Crowbar - his rooms were that general direction, Crowbar thought dazedly - and patted the shorter man on the shoulder as he went by.

Crowbar watched him swagger off, stunned, and watched the powdered-sugar handprints on the back of his coat disappear down the hall in silence.


	46. Aradia+Stabkids, Dealing with drunk dads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "5- the stabkids keep an eye on their drunk dads in the hideout. bonus points if bromantic hugging ensues and cd is still adorable being drunk." - Anon

Your name is Aradia Megido and you think you’re probably too old for this. Or possibly not old enough, it’s not clear. Either way, you’re having to chaperone your father and his stupid friends, and they are really, really drunk.

At least their kids are there too; you’re not suffering in solitude, theoretically. But Sollux has holed himself up in his father’s room, Karkat is fiercely trying to do his homework, and Tavros is watching the proceedings with an air of bemused enjoyment. You are alone on the couch, your arms and legs crossed primly, and you are definitely not looking at your father, who is sprawled next to you.

“Karkat you can jus’ … you want some bourbon?” Slick leaned heavily on the table in the hideout and smirked down at his kid.

“He can’ have any, ‘e’s not … of age,” your dad points out.

Slick’s balance - not the best that you’ve seen, even when he’s sober - is not at a high point, so when he spins to face your father he falls backwards and catches himself on the table, knocking Karkat’s book to the ground. Karkat snarls. “Don’ … don’ tell me how to _parent_ , asshole. Like ‘Radia hasn’ ever had a drink.”

“I haven’t,” you chime in, and your father pats you on the head.

“S’right. She’s a good kid.”

Slick watches you for a second and then looks to his glassfull of bourbon. “You wan’ one?”

“Slick!” Normally, you’re pretty sure Daddy would have at least shoved Slick for that, but this time he just pulls you back into a protective embrace. “She’s only fifteen.”

“Daddy, get off me.”

“‘M the cool uncle, this is what I _do_.” He looked over to Tavros. “What abou’ you, kid?”

“Uh, I don’t -“

“No, Slick,” Boxcars rumbled, waking Deuce, who was nestled on his stomach.

You take advantage of the momentary distraction created by the argument between Slick and Boxcars and twist around to face your father as much as you can. He’s half-asleep, so you shove him a little. “Daddy, I think you should go to bed.”

“Prob’ly.”He doesn’t move. You sigh, and shoot Karkat a despairing look across the hideout. Slick made and attempt to run at Boxcars and Deuce, it looked like, but he fell short at the edge of the oriental rug, and was instead dragging himself to the couch.

“You’re going to sleep on the couch, aren’t you, Daddy?”

“…Yeah.” He fumbled out of his jacket, tie and vest, and handed them to you. “Hang them up, would you?”

You sigh. “Fine, Daddy.” You stood up just in time to clear the way for Slick, who had flailed onto the couch, ending up with his chin propped on your dad’s chest. “You guys need anything else?”

Slick was staring at his bourbon, or what remained of it, and looked morosely to you. “Y’sure you don’ wan’ this?” Your dad hits him on the head. “Ow.”

You decide to leave them to it; can’t chaperone them every minute of every day. Tavros starts wheeling after you down the hall to the bedrooms, but you turn and look to Karkat. “Coming?”

“Nah, I’m gonna make sure they all keep breathing.”

You smirk and turn the doorknob to the door with the diamond painted on it. “Alright, well, get us if they stop. ‘Night, Tav, Karkat; see you all in the morning.”


	47. Dame+Gamzee, parenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "5, You know which Sleuthparent we haven't seen yet? Dame and Gamzee. What're they up to? *cough* for something more prompt like, I guess maybe a special occasion like a birthday or something, or maybe the background of some other sleuth/stabdad fic?" - trexila

”- and so, like, when the negative charge at the ground level builds up to sick levels and the positive charges in the motherf - sorry Mom - the atmosphere are all crazy ready, the _miracles happen_ and the bolt of lighting all up and shoots down and strikes.” Gamzee cleared his throat and shifted, a little nervously. “And, uh, that’s the miracle of lightning.”

Dame blinked. “That was … That was a very good presentation, Gamz.”

He beamed. “Righteous.”

“And all that about the charges and the, uh, the hail was correct? You’re sure?”

He nodded. “It’s a miracle that they even _know that_ , you know? All kinds of research and stuff, and these crazy mo - _men_ fly dirigibles straight into the clouds.” He dropped onto the couch next to her. “Supposedly they work a miracle on it so like, the lightning can’t set it on fire but man, Mom, you couldn’t pay me to do that.”

“Me neither,” she agreed. They sat in contemplative silence for a minute. “It really was a very good presentation, Gamzee.”

“Thanks.”

Silence settled, and stretched out through the apartment. Finally, Dame turned her gaze skyward. “Are we done yet?”

I mean, do you guys want to, uh, say anything else?

“Not particularly. Any suggestions?”

No, I literally have nothing.

“We’re your least favorite, aren’t we?” Gamzee asked, morose.

No … come on, guys no it’s just … I mean … You’re … nice.

“You’re a terrible liar, Spike.”

Um. No I mean. I like you. I like you both a lot. I just … fuck, I don’t know how your relationship works, okay? Sorry. It’s not you guys, it’s me.

“It’s me,” Gamzee sighed. “Fuck it, it’s always me.”

“If you want I can go wait in the shower for Snowman to show up again,” Dame suggested hopefully.

A sigh. Yeah. Yeah just … just go get in the shower. Gamzee you can just do whatever it is you do.

“Cold, author chick. Cold.”


	48. Slick+Deuce, Slick forgets how to stab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "#6. Slick wakes up to discover he has forgotten how to stab. His entire life is flipped turn-ways." - Anon

Your name is Clubs Deuce and you’re really worried. Really, really worried. You and the boss were staking out one of the Felt’s hideouts when some other gang came out of nowhere! And they left you alone pretty much, but that was just because Boss jumped in front of you and took the worst of the hits while you mixed up some explosives. You blew the other gang up, but not before they hurt Boss, bad.

You radio Boxcars, because you really don’t know what else to do! He says he’ll he there in a couple minutes, as fast as he can, which is good, you think, because Boss is really pale and he’s bleeding a lot and he’s not conscious but he’s making really bad noises, like he’s trying to scream or talk but he can’t.

Droog tells you it’s a concussion, which means he’s bruised in his brain. That’s not good, you think, and you just feel terrible because you didn’t really help him at all. So you wait with him until he wakes up, because you want him to know you’re really, really sorry. It’s the first thing you say when he wakes up, even! He just groans.

“Deuce?” He tries to sit up but he can’t right away because he’s rubbing his eye with his hand, and Droog took his other arm off. “Fuck.”

“I’m really, really sorry Boss!” you say quickly, just in case he missed it the first time. “I tried to help as fast as I could but I can only mix the ratios up so fast! It’s really hard when I’m nervous, too and they were beating you up so badly -” your eyes go wide as his hand darts for the table where one of his knives is. You curl up around your vital organs with practiced ease, and wait for the stab, but it never comes. You look to Slick, cautious.

He’s just staring at the knife like he’s never seen it before. That’s not true, you remember that! It’s his favorite knife. He calls it Knifie, you think. You’re not supposed to know that, and you forget why you do. “Is everything okay Boss?”

“No,” he tells you slowly. Probably because his brain hurts where it’s bruised. “No I just …” He looks to you, or he tries to, because his right eye is pretty swollen. “Deuce why the hell did I grab this?”

“Probably because you were going to stab me!” you say, happy to be able to help him. Droog _said_ he might have a hard time remembering things!

Boss looks confused, and he turns the knife over. “Right. Duh.” He stares that knife for a long time, and then he looks back at you. You smile, but you’re not sure about that, because he looks kind of scared, and that scares you, too. “So, uh, Deuce, you know how you forget stuff sometimes?”

You nod, boy do you! You forget a lot of things. “Droog said you might have trouble remembering stuff! He said I can help you if you need me to! And he said that I could do more than just running and getting him, even thought that’s probably all you’d want me to do!” You jump off your seat. “Is that what you want me to do, Boss?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No. Uh, Deuce if I was going to stab you …” He hefted the knife and then winced. You should probably tell him his arm is broken and he should keep it in the sling, but he always gets upset when that happens. You’d be upset too, you think, if you only had one arm. “Where do I usually stab you?”

“Well gosh, all kinds of places, Boss! But I don’t like the stomach very much - I bleed an awful lot and Droog gets really mad!” You cock your head. Boss’s memory is usually a lot better than yours - he must have really got a big bruise! “Don’t you remember?” Boss looks kind of upset then, and you feel really bad, so you crawl into bed next to him, on top of the covers, and pat him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry - Droog said you might forget things!”

He just looks at his knife, which is in his hand, resting in his lap, but he’s not holding it very tightly. You realize - oh, no! - that Boss has forgotten how to stab things. That’s bad, that’s really bad. Maybe worse than the time you found him without his arm! But Droog said he should remember things if you reminded him, right?

“Hey Boss?” you ask gently, leaning into his ribs. “It’s okay if you forget. I can teach you how to stab again. Droog says you really remember everything, it might just be hard the first time after you wake up!”

“I didn’t _forget how to_ -” He stops when you grab his wrist and help him hold the knife up.

“You’re holding it the right way, which is good!” You point to the tip. “That’s the part you stick into people. You told me one time that a knife might just look like one thing, but it’s really two! It’s got a tip which is good for killing fast, and an edge for hurting people and cutting things!”

“Deuce I didn’t forget what the fuck _knives_ are.”

“Well no of course not but I’m just explaining!” You take the tip of the knife and demonstratively poke it into your shoulder, where you have a lot of scars from when he’s stabbed you in the past. It doesn’t hurt too bad there, and you heal pretty fast, so if he needs to stab you to remember that would probably be a good spot! “So when you stab somebody you either want to hurt them or kill them! And you just take the knife and you …”

“Stick it in, right.” Slick pulled his arm back with a grimace and rested it in the sling. “I, uh, I got it.”

“Are you sure?” You pat him on his stump, and he snarls at you. He doesn’t like that, usually. “It’s okay if you don’t remember.”

“It’s coming the fuck back to me.”

“You don’t have to lie, Boss! I forget things all the time.” You smile brightly. “And it might be harder to remember if you’re having trouble seeing what I’m doing!”

“I can see _fine_.”

“Really? ‘Cause your eye’s pretty swollen and I don’t know if you can -” you squeak when the knife buries into your shoulder all the way to the hilt.

“I’m _fine_ , Deuce,” he snaps.

You hop off the bed, cradling your skewered arm. “I’m so glad you remembered! I was really worried about you for a second!”

“Yeah well don’t make me demonstrate again,” he growls, and then he lays back down real careful. He probably hurt his arm again but boy was he quick about stabbing you! “Go get Droog to sew you up, you’re bleeding all over the damn floor.”

“Okay!” You smile and trot from the room, pausing in the doorway. “I’m real sorry you got hurt, Boss,” you repeat, and he grunts, which you think means he’s okay with it. Then you close his door and wander off to find Droog, because you’re not bleeding very much but it sure does hurt!

You’re glad he stabbed you, though. Because for one minute he forgot - you could tell, you forget stuff a lot and you know how it feels - and if Boss forgot how to stab, well, you don’t even want to think about what he’d do. He might even leave the Crew! And you couldn’t have that, no way!

So even though your suit’s ripped, and you’re bleeding and your shoulder hurts a lot, it was worth it! Because now Boss remembers. You helped him remember, and made sure he did. So you’re still a Crew,  just like you’re pretty sure you always will be!


	49. Slick/Boxcars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Boxcars/Slick #12" - Anon

It’s not really a relationship that should work, when you step back and look at the cold hard facts of the personalities involved. Slick is a nasty, violent little man with a grudge against the world and you … you’re you. You like chocolates and roses and cozy nights watching a movie. You like eating at restaurants where the fanciest item on the menu isn’t the cheese-filled jalapeño poppers. You like foreplay, and snuggling, and scented candles, and everything that isn’t a quick, sloppy ten minutes against a brick wall in an alley behind a bar.

It shouldn’t work.

“This movie’s shit,” Slick complains, nestled into the couch and your own bulk. You’re watching _Chocolat_. He’d lobbied hard for _Iron Man 2_ , but you won by virtue of picking the VCR up to a point where he couldn’t reach it. “They should just bang already.”

You rumble a little before you speak. “It ain’t a skin flick, Slick - they’re gonna take their goddamn time about it.”

“Well where the fuck is the fun in that.”

You give up before the argument even gets started. It’s not worth it. You know if you press it he’s just going to get more obnoxious. So you make a neutral noise in the back of your throat and shift positions a little.

“You know what this don’t have that the other movie does?” Slick points out, three quarters of the way through the movie. “ _Fucking interesting things._ ”

“Slick you been watching the whole movie.”

“What the fuck else you think I’m gonna do?” You don’t answer that either. He could probably stake out your next heist, or drink with Droog, or take Deuce to go grab more materials. But it’s snowing outside, and Slick’s like an iguana or something, and you know he doesn’t really want to do those things, because what he really wants is to lay on the couch next to you, because you’re you and you’re warm and you baked cookies earlier and damn does he have a sweet tooth, and not inconsequentially, because you’re _you_.

If you call attention to that, he just gets all embarrassed and snappy and stalks off to bed or the bar, whichever he reckons’ll be warmer.

The movie’s over before either of you say anything; you were starting to wonder if he’d just given up and gone to sleep. But no, he’s just been stuffing cookies into his face. You kinda wish he’d left some for you, but you guess that’s a small price to pay for a movie uninterrupted. “You’re gonna be sick,” you tell him as he washes them down with an Irish coffee.

“Mind your own fucking business, Hearts,” he mutters, not meanly. And the he clambers up on top of you and stares you down. “That was an unequivocally awful movie. Most exciting shit that happened was the fucking fire.”

“You watched the entire thing, though,” you point out, thoughtfully. Not smirking, no. That wouldn’t help. “Fuckin’ accomplishment for you.”

“Well, like I said, not like I got anything better to do.”

You decide to push it, just for the hell of it. “Coulda gone out with Droog, or staked out that bank on forty-fifth.”

He glares. “I said _better_ to do,” he snapped, before he leaned in and kissed you.

It shouldn’t work, but you’re not complaining.


	50. Jade-Bec+Jack-Bec

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "12 Jade-Bec/Jack-Bec OTP." - Anon

They were cheering for you, the hordes before you. So small, so insignificant, and yet to hear them, to smell their juices … You salivated, your hand tightening on the grip of the instrument of their destruction, the utensil that would show them death …

“You’re burning them,” the dog girl said, leaning over your shoulder and sniffing. “Better hurry!”

“I like them crispy,” you tell her, almost growling but not quite. You do, however, flick one irritated ear and rustle your wings, gently shoving her away.

She crosses her arms and legs, and sits daintily in the air. “Well I refuse to feel bad for you if you burn any of them.” Her ears lay flat back against her head and she glares at you. “But I do think I will be upset about it.”

“Well you can fuckin’ deal with it.” Your arm flashes out and you spear the first. And then, slowly, reverently, you bring it up to your jaws and nibble at it once, before your basest canine urges overcome you and you snarf the rest down in a flurry of saliva and grease.

The girl sniffs distastefully. “You could use some better manners, you know! You can be a mass murderer but that doesn’t mean you have to be _disgusting_.”

You would snarl at her, but you still have some of the morsels left in your mouth, caught between your teeth and _good God it’s so delicious_. Instead you glare at her over your shoulder and snap your wing out to create a screen between the two of you.

“I can still hear you slobbering!” she snaps. “And I thought you said we were going to share!”

You do snarl this time, and fix her with a glare through a gap in the feathers. “I ain’t sharing with you! This is _mine_!”

You barely have that sentence out before her hand darts through your wing and grabs the handle of the frying pan, streaking your feathers with grease and drippings on the way out. She smirks at you, buck-toothed and smug.

“Bad dog,” she says, and you cower despite your best efforts to snarl. She smiles and nibbles at a strip of the fried, glorious treat. “Bacon is always for sharing.”


	51. Inspector+Nepeta, Making friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "12- Nepeta's and Equius' first meeting, or just how they became friends in the Mobsterdad universe?" - Anon

The other kids picked on her at school, PI knew, and it broke his heart that there wasn’t anything he could do. She wouldn’t say anything, and her demeanor never once changed, but she’d come home and there’d be dirt on her hat or she’d be very quiet about what happened at school that day and PI would crumble because he couldn’t bring himself to twist the confession out of her.

He spoke to the teacher, once, and she’d promised to look out for the girl, but PI was realistic; she was only one woman, and there were 19 children in the class. She couldn’t possibly watch all of them at once. And Sleuth had said something to Kanaya about loyalty and friends and watching out for your own, and that had helped, but only so much.

“Nepeta,” he said one night, “d-do you have any problems at school?”

Her eyes went wide. “Are my grades bad, Daddy?”

“N-No. No.” She nibbled at a chicken nugget meekly. “No but, well.” He thought about it, just for a second. “D-do you have many friends, Nepeta?”

She brightened. “Oh, yes! Kanaya and Karkat.” He waited, but she went back to her food.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. You just have the two, though!”

“W-well not exactly.” He shrugged. “P-perhaps you could try talking to some of your classmates more?”

She frowned. “Well, there is this boy. He follows me a lot and he tries to talk to me, but he’s kind of weird! He’s really strong. No one likes to talk to him very much; he breaks everyone’s stuff.”

PI looked to her for a minute, his ogle as neutral as possible. “P-perhaps you should … talk to him. He may like you.”

“Ew, Dad!” she said, and at the time, that seemed all there was to be said on the matter.

But as the days passed, and then weeks, he noticed little things, because that was what he was good at. She came home happier, she wasn’t as quiet in the mornings. She told him about classes, not unusual, and recess, which was. She stopped needing him to fix her hat. She started telling him about Equius, and his stables, and his horses, and his barn cats.

And, in time, PI stopped worrying.


	52. Crowbar/Die, First date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "13; um... Crowbar and Dies first date? Bonus brownie points if Itchy screws something up and there's a 'my hero' moment?" - Anon

There weren’t any express rules about dating within the ranks. Crowbar would have been tempted to say that that was simply because Scratch and English hadn’t anticipated romantic forays within the group, but since Crowbar had met Lord English, he was fairly certain that English probably would have encouraged them. Scratch, on the other hand, probably would not have, on the basis that it would interfere with the gang’s work.

So in order to avoid all sorts of unwanted attention, Crowbar and Die elected to keep quiet the nature of their first … well, it wasn’t a date exactly, more like ‘private dinner’. They met on one of the Mansion’s rooftop patios, over a couple bowls of microwave soup. It wasn’t the most romantic date Crowbar had ever been on, but it was nice.

When Die had first started talking to him - to anyone, really - Crowbar hadn’t really known what to say. There was a gap of experience there; 250 years’ worth, almost. And Die had been to other timelines, had dealt with horrorterrors, had worked personally with English and Scratch for years before even Clover joined the gang. He probably knew more about the Felt alone than Crowbar knew about anything.

So Crowbar had been respectful and awkward and Die had been increasingly exasperated and awkward and, after enough time and too many drinks, Die had jumped on Crowbar like he was the last strip of bacon at an all-you-can-eat buffet. It was the way it would have had to happen, really: Crowbar certainly wasn’t going to make the first move.

And here they were, staring up at the stars. “Can you read them?” Crowbar asked. Die just sighed. “Alright, alright, sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s profiling you know,” the voodoo priest griped, but there was an undercurrent of humor to it. “Just because I do voodoo everyone assumes I can read stars and tell fortunes and conjure gold at the end of a rainbow.”

“I think that’s Clover that we assume does that, actually.”

Die smirked. “You get the point.”

“I do.” Crowbar smiled a little and lifted his hat, running his fingers through his short-cropped red hair. “Nice night though, if you’re into that sort of thing. No clouds at all.”

“Well well _well_.” They both winced. So far, the night had been amazingly free of complications but, as complications went, this one was fairly major. Crowbar turned and looked to Itchy, standing there with his arms crossed and the world’s biggest shit-eating grin. “What have we _here_ , hm?”

“Get outta here, Itchy,” he warned, but Itchy just grinned wider and stood firm. “Come on, what do you even want?”

“You boys look like you’re having a _date_.” He was between them in a flash, leaning down to eye-level. “S’that what this is, hm? A date? _Row-mah-nce?_ ” He flung an arm around each of their shoulders and pulled the all together, all the while staring up at the sky. “Whaddaya think, Voodoo Child, you see passion and _love_ written in the stars?”

Die glared and reached for a pin. “Itchy -“

But the Felt with the yellow hat was gone, reappearing a second later, cross-legged on the railing. “What’re you gonna do, huh? Oh no, please, don’t send me to a timeline where I’m dead, they couldn’t take the levels of _awesome_ that would suddenly be re-introduced into their universe!”

“Can it, Itchy,” Crowbar warned.

“Oooh and now the baby’s mad.” He smirked. “Little baby Crowbar, thinks he’s in charge because he got a fancy little toy. You gonna use it to protect your little boyfriend? Ha! Listen, I was around before your great-great-grandma was a twinkle in your - oof.” The crowbar hit Itchy square in the jaw, and sent him tumbling from the railing.

Die joined Crowbar at the edge, and they watched as Itchy bounced from rooftop to rooftop, finally coming to rest in a row of hedges. They might have heard ‘you asshole!’ but it was distant, and easily ignored. “Hm. My hero,” Die snickered, glancing sidelong to Crowbar.

“Has he always been this annoying?”

“Yes.” Die’s skinny arm found a home around Crowbar’s shoulders, and they leaned together. “Et qu’est-ce que je dois mon sauveur pour ses nobles actions?”

“I have no idea what you just said.” Die snickered again. “But I think I deserve at least a kiss for that; he’s going to be insufferable until he heals.”

“Vous menteur,” Die muttered. “Vous ne parlent le français.”

Crowbar grinned, his lips brushing against Die’s for half a second. “Je ne sais pas ce sujet,” he said, barely audible, before he closed the gap.


	53. Rose/Kanaya, Problem Sleuth finds out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "14. Rose/Kanaya, sleuthdads AU, the first time Problem Sleuth finds out" - Anon

It was Halloween by the time Kanaya finally worked up the courage to approach her father. She and Rose had spent the day together, and the better part of the last hour had revolved around getting their costumes organized and prepared for the party at John’s house. Her father hadn’t remarked on it, although she was sure he must suspect something at this point: she and Rose were together almost constantly, and he kept a close enough eye on her these days to be aware of that. But still he assumed they were friends, just friends.

“I don’t really understand why you’re so intent on disabusing him of that notion,” Rose commented as she buttoned up her suit jacket. “I’m sure he’d be content to remain in blissful ignorance for the remainder of your youth.”

“But I cannot help but feel as though it is unfair to let him suffer under the burden of misconception.”

“Hm, interesting that you used the word suffer.” She looked at Kanaya in the mirror. “What do you think the -“

“Now is not the time, Rose.” She smoothed the front of her gown down. “I am going to tell him.”

Rose stepped away from the mirror and put her hand on Kanaya’s shoulder. “I suppose tonight is as good a night as any; the rest of the motley crew at this party is bound to figure something out. Probably better to tell him now before he hears a rumor.”

Kanaya nodded, her face set, and opened the door to her bedroom. “You are exactly right.”

“I know.” A pat. “I usually am. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Problem Sleuth was sitting at the dinged-up table, nursing a cup of coffee. When Kanaya and Rose stepped into the kitchen he looked up, and his face fell. “What’s wrong?”

Kanaya frowned. “Nothing is wrong, Father. What makes you ask?”

“Well,” he said slowly, “you both just stepped in here looking fairly grim. Is everything alright?” He set his coffee down as Kanaya took a deep breath.

“Father, there is something I have to tell you.” She looked to Rose, who nodded encouragingly. “Father, Rose and I … Rose and I are …” she trailed off and took a breath before finishing. “Rose and I are dating.”

Sleuth looked surprised. “Dating?”

“Yes. Rose and I.”

He looked from one to the other, a little bewildered. “How long has this been going on?”

Kanaya stood up straighter. “Several months.”

“Several _months_?”

Rose looked to her girlfriend and saw a spark of defiance there. “Yes. Several months. Is that a problem?”

Sleuth blinked, and the looked surprised. “No! No, Kanaya it’s just … where have you been _going_?” He looked to Rose. “Have you two been going out?”

Kanaya looked somewhat surprised at that line of questioning. “Er. Yes? Of course we have, Father, we’re dati -“

“But _where_?”

Rose cut in, because Kanaya was struggling with the direction this was going. “We’ve been bowling with the usual group, sir, and we’ve had several romantic trips to the local 7-Eleven for pints of Ben&Jerry’s.”

Sleuth jumped up and embraced Kanaya, who seemed to be stunned by this development. “Kanaya you should have said something. 7-Eleven is hardly -” he stepped back, and pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket. “Here. If you girls are going to be dating you might as well go somewhere decent, honestly.” He paused. “Just, uh, just don’t … be home by -“

“I’ll bring her home safely, sir, not to worry.” Rose prodded Kanaya to the door. “We’ll be at the Egberts’.”

Sleuth watched them go, bemused. “Well, uh, have fun then, girls.” He waved a little as the door closed behind them. Rose continued to guide Kanaya down the hall, because the troll girl seemed a little too dazed to manage without a little direction.

“I can’t believe he just … I thought …” she stammered, as they started down the stairs.

“Kanaya,” Rose said evenly, “your father is seeing Spades Slick. Short of you revealing you’ve slurped the technicolor rainbow lifeblood of every troll in the city, I think you’re fairly unlikely to shock him.”


	54. Midnight Crew, Deuce gets angry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Number: 14 AW YEAH Prompt: Deuce is angry. Really angry. And it doesn't go away after half an hour like normal, either. The rest of the Crew tries to cheer him up/find out whats wrong only to discover that's he's gosh so angry because Droog and Slick have been spending so much time with PI and PS respectively and geeze I thought we were friends guys." - the-magical-crawdad

It’s not often that the little guy gets this upset about something, but today he’s absolutely _livid_ , an’ you’re kind of worried about what’s got him all hot under the collar. You tried to talk to him about it, but he actually snapped at you an’ stormed off this his room. There’s been explosions coming from in there intermittently, which only happens when he’s _really_ upset.

“You got any idea what he’s all riled up about, Boss?” you ask Droog, because he saw most of everything from his place on the couch. He just shakes his head and shrugs before his paper twitches back into place and obscures his face from you. You frown.

“Hey Deuce, come on, what’s wrong?” you ask, a little louder than normal, but not yelling because when you do that bits of the ceiling tend to fall down. “There something you wanna talk ta me about?”

“This doesn’t concern you, Hearts!” Another explosion punctuated the statement, and you step back from the door, surprised.

That’s not like Deuce at all, to shut you down. Now you’re _really_ worried. “So who’s it concern?”

The door swings open, and Deuce is glaring up at you. “Not you, apparently! I _guess_ it’s just between me and Slick and Droog!” He turns in a more Droog-ward direction and raises his voice yet louder. “Since you don’t seem to mind, Hearts!”

Droog looks over the top of his paper, curious and maybe a little affronted. “What are you talking about?”

“Hmph!” Deuce glared, crossed his arms and turned on his heel. The door slammed behind him. Droog blinked.

“ _What_?”

Another door in the hideout slammed, open this time, and you look over to see Slick glaring at the two of you, still only half-awake. “The _fuck_ is everybody yelling about out here?”

“Deuce is pissed at you an’ Droog,” you explain, while Droog just shoots Slick a look and a shrug. “Dunno what about.” The door swung open again and Deuce stepped out, brushing roughly past you and squaring himself up in front of the two of them, arms crossed. “Deuce -“

“Nobody knows what it’s about, because apparently nobody cares about the Crew anymore!” he announces, and silence falls hard. All of your attention is fixed on him, because you’re stunned that he could say such a thing. By the looks of it, so are Slick and Droog.

Slick blinks the sleep out of his eye and decides to break the silence. “ _What_?”

“Name _one thing_ we’ve done as a Crew in the past month!”

Droog frowned. “Deuce, we all see each other at least once every single day and -“

“That’s not what we do as a Crew!”

Slick was catching on too, enough to cut in. “What, Deuce, are you antsy for a heist or you wanna kill some -“

“I don’t care!” He threw up his hands. “I don’t! As long as we do something, because I think our Crew is falling apart!” You put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs you off. “It is! All we do now is run the clubs and the casinos and sometimes we play music, but we don’t do anything else. Because Droog is too busy having tea with Pickle Inspector, and Slick only ever spends time with Problem Sleuth anymore!”

You could have cut the tension in the room with a knife, which, with the Boss standing there, might have been a very real possibility. Deuce broke the silence this time, sagging under your hand, all his fight spent right out of him. “We’re supposed to be a _Crew_ , guys; we always have been. And now I feel like we’re not and … and I guess I’m just worried the Midnight Crew is done with forev -“

“No.” Slick cuts in almost immediately, waving his arm and shaking his head. “No, no don’t _even_ fucking say it, Deuce.”

You pat Deuce’s back a little while Slick stumbles out into the common room, explaining himself. “Shit, Deuce, there’s nothing that goody two-shoes asshole even has that’s _close_ to what you guys got. You guys … you guys …” He gets to the couch and leans heavily on the back. Droog looks up at him, and you’ve known them long enough to know something unspoken passes between them. “Boxcars, you got plans tonight?” Slick asks.

“No, Boss.”

“What about you, Deuce?”

Deuce sticks his nose into the air. “So what if I do.”

Droog sighs. “Do you or don’t you?”

“No.”

“Fine.” Slick turned around and stalked back to his room. “Droog and Deuce, pick a museum, I feel like educatin’ myself tonight in exactly how much some of those artifacts are fuckin’ worth. I’m gonna put my fuckin’ arm on.”

Deuce looks up at you, and he seems a little confused. “You gotta help Droog pick where we’re robbin’ tonight, Clubs,” you clarify, pushing him over to Droog. “Slick wants to do a museum.”

“Really?” An’ then the little guy looks fit to burst, he’s so excited. “All four of us?”

“All four of us,” Droog confirms, standing up while Deuce plopped down on the cushions. “Give me a moment to collect the museum blueprints.”

You wait until he’s right at your shoulder to reach out and stop him, gently. He looks to you, and there’s just a flash of something angry in those grey eyes. “Deuce’n I found all the phone parts after the last time Sleuth was here,” you whisper, so Deuce doesn’t hear. “You should be able to call PI from here.”

“Thank GPI,” Droog mutters, and he strolls away from you, some of the tension gone out of his shoulders. “I do hate it when he calls me rude.”


	55. Slick+Scratch, Supernatural face-off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "15. Some kind of encounter (preferably violent) between ShadowMagic!Slick and Doc Scratch. Scratch has done something that's really enraged Slick." - Anon

Spades Slick isn’t on good terms with the Felt on the best of days, and that goes double for their on-paper manager, Doc Scratch. Everyone knows it, and everyone knows Slick and Scratch do one another - and everyone else - a favor and steer clear of each other as much as possible. So when Scratch broke their unspoken pact - and why he did that, you’re not sure, and you don’t know if you want to be - it took everyone by surprise, you included. It’s why you didn’t expect Slick when he smashed down the front door of the mansion (again), and why you didn’t get in his way when he just looked at you and licks of purple fire danced along his shoulders.

You’re certainly not getting in the way now; Slick found Scratch, and you and Snowman and Die are clustered in the door, stunned.

“Did you know he knows magic?” you ask, and the other two murmur to the affirmative. “But he’s …” You shake your head. “He’s … _Jesus_ what was that?” you don’t jump back but it’s a near thing; a ring of purple fire sears through the floorboards and jumps up around Scratch, deflecting a cloud of lightning into the ceiling, where a small fire started. Matchsticks had already declared this entire exercise a waste of his time, and had told them to call him when it was over.

“Shadow magic. It’s a Derse thing,” Snowman explained, blowing a smoke ring.

“‘Cause they’re the only ones reckless enough to fool with it.”

“That was racist, Die.” The voodoo priest shrugged. “It is dangerous, though; I hardly ever use it. Slick, too, from what I understand, although he’s a little freer with it than most.”

Scratch vanished and reappeared behind Slick, managing to clock the taller man in the face with, well, a clock. Slick fell hard, but he managed to catch Scratch’s wrist and drag him along. “Should we stop them?” you ask, glancing to the other two. Snowman just shook her head, while Die raised his eyebrows.

“I dunno, you wanna jump into the middle of that?” Slick’s hands burned purple and he clenched them around Scratch’s neck.

“At the rate he’s going,” Snowman said, thoughtful, while Scratch’s head was set about denting the floorboards, “he’s going to kill himself soon enough.”

“Kill himself?”

“Oh, yeah. Shadow magic’s …” Die bit his lip while he thought, and the purple fire spread from Slick’s hands to Scratch’s body. You’re worried, but not that worried, because Scratch doesn’t even look phased. Annoyed, yes. “It’ll drain you, worse than voodoo does. A lot worse than voodoo.” He catches your expression - which probably is pretty pathetically confused, alright - and sighs. “You know how I use stuff for magic? Ingredients and reagents and stuff? That’s like … like _batteries_. But shadow magic, that gets powered from your … your … _l’esprit de vie_. Like your soul, sort of, but not exactly.”

In the room, Scratch is engulfed in purple flames, but he looks for all the world to be calm, cool and collected. Slick, on the other hand, is pale, and shaking, and pouring sweat; the back of his suit is soaked. Scratch waits, and soon enough the hands around his neck slacken, and Scratch is able to catch Slick in the chest with a small lightning ball, nothing too ostentatious. Slick goes flying, and ends up on the floorboards ten feet away.

You and Die head for Scratch without a second glance at Slick. Snowman, on the other hand, goes to his side instead, and kneels. You can’t hear what she’s saying, but she teleports out with him in her arms a few seconds later. Whatever.

“Are you alright, sir?” you ask, cautiously.

Scratch has climbed to his feet, and he brushes himself off as he smiles warmly up at you. “Why of course, Crowbar. It will take more than one or two little parlor tricks to hinder me!”

“Anything we can get for you, sir?” Die offers.

“Oh, no! No, Die, thank you, but I assure you I am quite alright. Although I do hope Snowman is good to Slick; we’ll need him eventually.”

“I’m sure she’s only planning on taking off a finger or two this time, since she was in such a good mood today,” you deadpan. Die doesn’t snicker, but he turns away quickly and has a suspicious coughing fit into his sleeve. Scratch just looks disapproving. “Just kidding, sir.”

“Yes. Naturally, I assumed so, but Crowbar do keep in mind that we did not hire you for your jokes.” Now Die does laugh, one bark, and then he looks apologetic but not, in point of fact, sorry. Scratch doesn’t look any happier about that.

“In any case, you two now have an assignment: make sure Slick lives. I am sure Snowman has it well in hand, but as I said, we quite need him to survive.”

“Couldn’t Fin and Trace -” you start, but Scratch cuts you off.

“Fin and Trace are not the ones I have chosen for this, for a variety of reasons. It will be you, Crowbar and Die, and I will not take report from anyone else.” He shrugged. “All you need do is monitor him; if anything this counts as easy duty.”

“Of course sir,” Die said quickly, just as you said “But don’t you think it gets a bit boring?”

“Crowbar, I must admit that I could not care less about how bored you are or aren’t. Besides,” he added, coolly, while he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the bloodstains on his knuckles, “it ought to give you some time to work on your jokes.”


	56. Rose/Kanaya, The girls run a fashion blog with Droog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "15. Droog, Kanaya, and Rose run a fashion blog together." - Anon

It had started out just being silly; Kanaya had decided to take her love of fashion public, and post a few articles here and there on the internet. She opened a free blog account, posted some pictures, and discussed the cuts and fabrics and colors. It wasn’t ever meant to be serious, just something to do to fill her time on rainy days.

When she started dating Rose, of course, the other girl saw fit to get involved. Not that Kanaya minded: Rose had a way with words that simply escaped Kanaya altogether. She and Rose could talk about the fashions they uncovered - the lastest from New York or Milan - and then Rose would write up their conclusions, packaged with a healthy serving of sarcasm and humor. It was fun, a real blast, and Kanaya enjoyed working on it because it was something they could do together.

And then Rose had written that article on the latest line from one Tommy Halflinger and their blog had _exploded_. They were quoted in papers, interviewed, reprinted. People started paying attention to their blog and their opinions, all the time. Seemingly overnight they jumped from 29 followers to 2900.

They still did it for fun, even then, but some of the luster had worn off. They got emails asking about updates, demanding more and faster. They did their best, but it was simply too much for one person to manage, even for two people to manage, much less two high school juniors with full course loads. They were floundering. And what was worse, they were getting requests: look at this line or that line, release a preview of the fall fashions, post a summary of Prospit’s fashion week and oh, where was all the men’s clothing?

“I don’t even know where to start with these suits,” Rose sighed, leafing through a magazine Kanaya had brought to school that day. They were waiting for Sleuth to arrive, sitting close on a bench in front of the school in the early afternoon heat. “What do you know about this stuff?”

“I am afraid I am quite at a loss where men’s fashion is concerned,” Kanaya mumbled, paging through her own magazine.”Of course I could speculate on what looks nice and what doesn’t, but really Rose, the subtleties of it escape me.”

“And if I may - why are you young ladies researching men’s fashion?” The pair looked up sharply, Rose only paling a little at the voice. Diamonds Droog was watching them, smoke curling from his nose and off the end of his cigarette. He was Aradia’s adoptive father, yes, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating.

“We run a small fashion blog, sir,” Kanaya explained, sitting up and setting the magazine in her lap. “Just for fun. And we have received a lot of requests to include men’s fashion in the blog, so we thought we would acquiesce to widespread interest.”

He gently pulled the magazine from her hands. “But you said you didn’t know anything about men’s fashion?”

“No sir, but I am always, of course, willing to learn.”

A page turned, and Droog made a thoughtful noise. Rose was sitting stock-still next to Kanaya; she didn’t have Kanaya’s father’s connections to draw experience from, and Droog’s mere presence was enough to keep her respectfully quiet.

“And you are looking for what here, precisely?”

“Just general commentary, comments and criticisms on the lines, and other things of that nature.”

“Hm.” He turned another page, and absently ashed his cigarette into a nearby bush. Kanaya and Rose stayed put, waiting for him to say something, anything. “A fashion review then.”

“Yes, sir.”

He dropped the dogend of the cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out with the heel of one perfectly-polished shoe. When he did glance up from the magazine - briefly - he nodded almost imperceptibly, presumably to Aradia, “Allow me to make a proposal.” They nodded. “Kanaya, I believe I am expected at your father’s partner’s office this Thursday for tea; if it is agreeable to you I can annotate this magazine and ensure that it returns to you and Miss Lalonde.”

Kanaya blinked, and looked Droog over. Black suit, sharp cut, perfectly tailored. There wasn’t a button loose, a thread out of place. Perfect double-Windsor in the tie. Not a speck of lint, or a hint of fading or fraying. She smiled. “Mr. Droog, if you are amenable to that plan, that would be _wonderful_.”


	57. Deuce, Infomercials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "16 - Deuce has poor judgement, a credit card, and access to infomercials. What are the consequences?" - trexila

You are easily the most enthusiastic member of the Midnight Crew. You’re pretty much enthusiastic about everything - doesn’t really matter what! Puppies, marshmallows, bank robberies, free tacos at the Mexican place on Thursday, they’re all pretty much great! None of the others are that way; Slick mostly gets upset, but not happy, Boxcars gets happy but in kind of that quiet way where he just smiles and laughs a little, and Droog … well, you’ve never seen Droog get happy about anything. You assume he does, but it’s hard to tell!

Sometimes you get kind of lonely, having all this enthusiasm and no one to share it with. You do wonder if maybe there’s anyone else in the world that feels the way you do about things. Probably! But you’ve never really met them.

And you still haven’t, but you’ve seen him, and you’re so excited about it! It was late one night, really late, and you were sitting on the couch (well, alright, on Boxcars’ stomach, but  he was on the couch, so that counted) watching TV, because you didn’t feel like sleeping. You were watching a funny movie about a group of four friends at a news station, and it kind of reminds you of the Crew, except that none of you have moustaches. You think about waking Boxcars up to tell him what you think, when the movie cuts to commercial and you slouch back; no sense in waking him up for commercials, and he’d probably just be grumpy anyway.

This late at night they only advertise inventions - and you think those are pretty nifty! But Droog has told you a million times (or at least, he says a million, but you don’t even think that’s possible!) that you shouldn’t but the things on TV because they’re tawdry pieces of crap that don’t work and cost too much. You’re not sure he’s right about that - they really  do seem like great inventions - but he’s usually right about stuff, so you listen to him and try your best to ignore the commercials.

But this one, woah! This one startles you, because the guy in the commercial is so loud! And he seems really, really excited about what he’s selling, too. You can’t help yourself, and you watch the whole infomercial. It’s something for laundry, something that cleans your clothes really well. And the guy just seems so excited about it that you get excited too; you can’t help it! You watch him plop some ketchup onto a white shirt, and there’s a time lapse. Why did he do that - you can’t get dried ketchup out of anything! You know this, because Droog’s told you that a bunch of times.

But then the shirt goes into a bowl of the laundry stuff, and when it comes out the stain’s gone! Your eyes go wide, and your mouth falls open.

You’re not supposed to buy stuff off of commercials. Droog told you that a million times. But … but you think maybe, if Droog could see this …

You fumble the phone off the hook and pull Boxcars’ credit card out of his pocket. Droog is going to  love this .

-()-

At least, that’s what you thought when you bought it. It’s a week later, and now you’re not so sure. You tried to explain it to the guys, but mostly they’re just mad that Boxcars let you near the credit card again. They’re still mad, no matter how excited you get about the laundry stuff. And it’s kind of hard to get excited, with Boxcars and Droog glaring at you across the table. “It … it really works though!” You wave the tub defensively at them. “It does!” And then you get a brilliant idea. “Here, I’ll show you!”

You have to be quick with Droog, because he’s pretty fast, but you have a lifetime of experience with slapstick gags, so shooting mustard is pretty much really easy. You hit his tie dead-on, and duck back behind Boxcars before he can break your neck.

“It’s going to work! You just put the stuff in a bowl with water and it gets the stain out! I saw it on TV!”

Droog’s trying to kill you, so Boxcars picks him up and holds him at a safe distance. “It better, little man,” Boxcars tells you. “For your sake.”


	58. Spades Slick, Parenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "16: Slick's first attempts at trying to raise either Karkat as a grub or after he hatched from his cocoon. Bonus points if one of the crew stop him from accidentally killing him." - Anon

Spades Slick is definitely not the parenting, nurturing type. He’s the stabbing type. He’s the stealing type. He’s the beating-in-the-face-with-a-blunt-instrument type, but he sure as hell is not the parenting type.

So the grub he took home from the dumpster behind the Burger King is kind of throwing him for a loop. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to take care of it, but everyone else took theirs home, and in this instance peer pressure is taking its toll; he can’t just dump the gross thing in a river and forget about it. For one thing, Boxcars would harangue him for months, and Deuce would probably never forgive him. So instead he brought it home and now he’s trying to take care of it. ‘Trying’ being the operative word.

It cries. It cries all the time, and its stupid little legs clack against its carapaced underbelly, and it rolls around in the plastic tub Slick lined with towels for it. He feeds it, some food that smells like rotting flesh and looks like a red mass of snot. It eats, and yeah, maybe it’s quiet for half an hour then, but  then it starts wailing again and it’s not even hungry.

Every day the river looks like a better option, consequences be damned.

The hideout’s been quiet since they found the grubs; everyone’s gone to ground, tried to rearrange their lives around these awful wailing little things. Slick doesn’t care; he needs to get out, get away from his house for a while, even if the hideous little thing has to come with him. So he tosses some of the “food” in a plastic bag and sets the plastic bin with the grub in it in his car and drives over to the hideout, kind of desperately hoping  someone ’ll be there. 

Turns out Droog had similar thoughts, and Slick wakes him up when he and his grub manage to make it down the ladder in one piece. “Hey,” Slick muttered, dropping the plastic bin on the couch without any great ceremony. Droog scowled at him, but Slick ignored it, letting himself slump into the cushions between the grub’s bin and his second-in-command.

They exchanged a look, and for once Slick didn’t really feel the need to complain. Droog looked like shit, same as Slick was pretty sure he did; dark circles under his eyes, pale. Even his suit was kind of rumpled, although Slick’s mind boggled just thinking about that. “Was this a bad idea?” Droog asked, eventually, slouching back a little more. His own grub was bundled up in a veritable multitude of blankets, resting quietly on the cushion next to him.

“Maybe,” Slick sighed. “Probably.” He let his head loll onto Droog’s shoulder and for once the other man didn’t bitch him out about wrinkling his suit. “Shit, Droog, we’re not parents. This isn’t … we  rob fucking banks . Not raise freaky little alien worm things.”

Droog nodded, and continued to sit there, in silence. Slick sighed and sat back up, leaning over the edge of the plastic bin. The grub was sleeping for once, the little bastard; he’d quieted down during the car ride. “Maybe we should get rid of ‘em.”

Droog didn’t say anything, and after a minute Slick looked over to him. He expected relief, agreement, something along those lines. Not faint horror. “What?”

“We can’t …  Slick , what the fuck is wrong with you?” Slick paused. When Diamonds Droog looks you in the eye and asks you what’s wrong with you, it’s a good time to stop and take a look at what you said. “If you’re just going to kill him then call Boxcars or something, he’d take him. Christ.” He shook his head and looked to his own grub. “We find these things in a dumpster and you just want to kill them because it’s inconvenient for you? How’s that make you any better than the jackasses that left ‘em there in the first place?”

“I’m not tryi -” he wilted a little under Droog’s glare. “It doesn’t.” He slumped over the side of the tub and groaned as the grub stirred and started whimpering. “It just cries all the fucking time! I feed it constantly, and it still fucking cries, I don’t know what the fuck it even -”

“Do you ever  hold him? And it’s a him, Slick, not an it. Honestly.”

“The fuck are you talking about? ‘Course I don’t hold it - him. It’s all … leggy. And … insecty.”

Droog sighed, exasperated, and jerked the blanket off the back of the couch. “Then wrap him up in this, stupid.” Slick dropped the blanket on top of the grub and stared at it. “ Hold him .”

He did, eventually, gingerly, grimacing the entire time. Droog rolled his eyes. “It’s  wriggling .” He leaned back into the couch, the grub nestled in his arms, and glared at it. “So now -  oh what the  fuck .” The grub had spotted the lapel of Slick’s coat, and had chomped happily down on it, with no small amount of slobber. “What the hell is this shit?” He prodded the grub’s belly and it squirmed, although it didn’t release his jacket. “I hate this; this shit is disgusting.”

“He’s quiet.” He glared at Droog, who just settled back into the couch cushions, his hand tucked inside the blanket burrito his little grub was encased in. “Just hold him, Slick, and get some sleep.”

Slick turned back to the grub, which looked lazily at him with heavy-lidded eyes. It yawned, and released his jacket. Slick propped his feet up on the coffee table, settling the grub more on his stomach and tipping his hat down over his eyes. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “You better sleep. Otherwise I’ll kill you.” Droog, who Slick could have sworn was snoring, punched him hard in the shoulder. “You fucker,” he mumbled, before he slouched into Droog’s shoulder and let sleep take him.


	59. Slick+Sleuth, Temporary blindess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "12 - Slick becomes temporarily blind in his other eye, Droog and Sleuth take turns babysitting." - maybeitsavirus

The problem with having one eye, Diamonds Droog had long ago considered, was that you only had one eye. Which had implications, not only for depth perception and range of vision, but also for general things that you needed to be more prudent about, going forward. Things like not getting hit in the face with Crowbar’s crowbar.

Unfortunately, Spades Slick was not a prudent man. The good news was that the eye itself was fine, even if the eyelid and the socket were trashed all to hell. The bad news was that it had to stay bandaged for a couple weeks, to let the stitches heal and to keep the swelling down. And that meant that Spades Slick was, essentially, blind.

To be perfectly honest, Droog was pretty sure it was wearing on him more than on Slick himself. Because Slick refused to admit anything was wrong, and more than once Droog had only been alerted to Slick’s alert state by a sudden crashing and advent of swearing. And not like Slick would ever do anything about whatever mess he’d managed to create, of course, so it fell to Droog to keep the hideout in its usual state, rather than allow it to regress to the post-Slick chaotic disaster zone it always seemed so close to.

Which was why on day 4, Droog gave up and called Problem Sleuth. “There’s a manhole outside Regicide. You have fifteen minutes.” He hung up the phone before Sleuth could stammer out anything resembling words, and grabbed the keys to his car. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Slick was flicking through the TV channels, not that it made much difference, but he sat up when Droog started climbing the ladder. “You can’t leave me here, asshole.”

“Can and will. Don’t touch the stove.”

When Problem Sleuth finally did arrive, he wasn’t exactly sure what to expect; he’d known Slick was hurt, thus him retreating underground, but just how hurt was a mystery to him. He figured maybe some broken bones, or perhaps a gunshot wound to somewhere painful. He didn’t expect the wad of bandages over Slick’s good eye.

“Shit, Slick,” he swore, crossing the hideout and ducking into the kitchen. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Slick shrugged. “I got hungry.” And then, cautiously, “You are Sleuth, right?”

“Yes, you idiot. Get away from the stove.” He shoved Slick over and sighed at the halfway-boiling pot of water. “You and your fucking macaroni.”

“ Like I said -”

Sleuth frowned at him. “Can you see  anything ?”

“… No.”

“Then  why the fuck are you trying to use kitchen appliances? What made you think that would be a good - No. No, you know what? Never mind.” He grabbed Slick by the elbow. “Let’s just sit back down and I’ll cook this stupid -”

Slick wrenched his arm loose. “I can walk, dipshit.” And then he swore, because he failed to remember there was about a foot of wall space to the left of the countertop, and only became reacquainted with it when his nose saw fit to crunch into it. Sleuth winced when he heard the bone crackle. “ Fuck .”

Slick let Sleuth lead him back to the couch, although he probably would have said it was because he was too busy focusing on his nose, not because he couldn’t see. “You’re not very good at this whole being injured thing, are you?” Sleuth asked, settling into the couch next to the other man. It was an honest question: he didn’t know Slick well, not beyond that case they’d worked together a year ago, and sure, they had drinks now and again, but they were hardly very familiar.

“Fuck off, I’m awesome at this,” Slick muttered, gingerly prodding his nose. He winced, and made a disgusted noise, and groped around for the remote control. Sleuth picked it up from the coffee table and poked him in the side with it. “ I’ll find it .”

“I was holding it the whole time.”

“Oh. Well. Fine.” The TV crackled on, and Slick flipped through the channels, found a baseball game and settled on that for a while before he snapped it back off and pitched the remote across the room. “This is bullshit.”

Sleuth made a noise that might have been in agreement, before he got up and retrieved the remote control. “They sort of expect you to be able to see if you’re watching TV, Slick.”

“Yeah, well, that’s fucking … dis - un - er …” He looked as sullen as the mass of gauze would allow. “That’s not right. They shouldn’t -” he stopped, and paused to listen as the game’s color commentator’s voice filtered through the hideout. “What the hell?”

Sleuth dropped back into the couch cushions and leaned back. “Radio.” He snickered. “Problem sleuthed.”

For a blind guy, Spades Slick had surprisingly good aim, Sleuth reflected, as the second nasal bone fracture in twenty minutes occurred. “What, so you  break my nose ?” he snapped, indignant, holding one hand under his nose as blood gushed out of it.

Slick looked unbelievably smug as he folded his hands behind his head and smirked in Sleuth’s general direction. “Listen,  detective , I make all the puns around here.” He snickered. “You just make the macaroni.”


	60. Jack Noir, Dying after being Bec

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "13. Bec Noir dies and enters the afterlife having returned to his senses. The Derse Agents help him come to terms with what he did when he wasn’t quite himself." (thanks to CoZ for the beta read!)

When the Sovereign Slayer died, it wasn’t in a glorious burst of destruction and rage. It wasn’t even in a cool explosion. It was a simple, neat death brought on by some kids in sweatpants. It was over in less than a minute. Then the kids looted his body, and he melted away from the mortal plane.  
  
And came to somewhere … somewhere  else , somewhere that looked a lot like Derse, except that it was empty and not on fire. Tall, empty buildings all around, and not a sound.

Jack thought about sitting up for a minute, and nixed the idea. He  ached . Was this dying? Why was he in Derse, though? He’d destroyed Derse, got his Crew out and let the place burn. Unless he was in another universe again, which was possible; he’d tried to escape, maybe it had worked.

His wings didn’t hurt, which was a plus. Or they were numb, maybe. Or, he realized, when he looked over his shoulder while his neck screamed objections, they were gone.

He sat up and ignored the sear through his ribcage. It was all gone: the tentacles, the wings, the harlequin rag, the sword, the  ring …

He swore and struggled to his feet after a few false starts. The soreness was fading, anyway, the longer he was awake. Maybe he just needed to walk around, move a little, and horrorterrors help the first person he ran across. 

Moving didn’t help, it turned out, but the streets were familiar, if eerily empty. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t right. Had the kids got the ring away from him? Maybe the Witch had sent him somewhere, alone, in the haunted remnants of his home city that he’d grown to hate, for the rest of eternity. She probably thought it was to punish him, to let him think about what he’d done …

Which was a little hazy, to be honest. He’d killed a lot of graveyard stuffers, that was for sure. But the longer that ring was on, the more timelines he hopped to, the more people he killed, they just sort of blurred together. It had been a lot. And what for?

That was bothering him a little. What for? He paused in front of an empty tavern and glared at the door, plucking idly at his tunic. Because … because he’d been angry. Because he could. Because he’d always wanted to, but there was that stupid bitch, and the Crew was around to hold him back. No, not not hold him back, that was wrong; they hadn’t held him back, they’d kept him from getting himself killed. Which did hold him back, but without that ring he needed it, maybe.

Where were they, anyway? It was Derse, even if it was another session, they ought to be around here somewhere; the suits were in every session.

Unless he was alone. Utterly, completely alone. There wasn’t even anyone here he could kill.

Suddenly Derse felt very cold indeed. He wrapped his arms around his aching ribs and kept walking, toward the Crew’s favorite place. If they were here - they had to be, there was a set of suits in every session - they’d be in there, drinking and bitching and …

They were there. They had to be there. They were in every session, they  had to be there …

“Well, look who finally got too big for the universe’s last pair of britches.” Something hard thudded into the back of Jack’s head and sent him reeling. Jack acted on instinct, catching himself before he fell onto his face and spinning toward his assailant. The other Dersite was faster though, and a massive fist caught him full in the face. He tumbled backwards over the flagstones, coming to rest with his back to his attacker. 

He almost manged to get his arms back under him when a boot caught him in the ribs. He rolled, and tried not to think about his carapace, and how he’d heard it cracking, and how he could feel wetness along his side, warm and sticky. He curled his arms around his head, and braced himself for both the next impact as well as the next clue toward the other person’s position, and maybe then he could make a jump for them. Maybe if they said something else -

“You couldn’t even explain yourself!” Two three-fingered fists wrapped into his tunic and shook him. “I thought I did a good job! I just did what I was supposed to do! Kill the girl, you said, you told me! Kill her, and I did, and then you  killed me and you couldn’t even look sorry about it!”

He cracked one eye open, hesitant, and found himself gaping in the face of the Droll. The Droll, who looked utterly furious. The Droll, who was winding up to hit him. 

“Get the fuck off me -” He’d always forgot how hard CD could punch. It was like all the strength of a normal Dersite, compressed into a supermassive, tiny little fist. It was like someone had driven a railroad spike into the bridge of his nose. “Ow, Jesus!”

“ You didn’t even explain what I did -”

“Enough, little buddy.” Jack almost groaned; he knew the first person had sounded familiar. He struggled to get up, but his right side was on fire, and it was hard when he was splinting his ribs, and his eyes were streaming from the stupid Droll and HB was picking him up by the collar anyway.

He dangled in the air, in front of HB’s face, the threads in his collar tearing one by one. “Hey HB what -”

“ And me too, ” he snarled. “Huh, Jack? You got an explanation? Bet you do, you slimy fucking backstabbing -”

Jack raised his arms, flinching away from a blow that never came. Instead, there was a curse, a thud, and HB dropped him. He landed awkwardly, his left leg buckled, but he managed to catch himself and shakily straighten. “What the -” and then his eyes met HB’s, angry and cold, glaring up at him from his decapitated head on the ground.

The battlefield. Black and white checks, and a lot of blood. A Prospitan, maybe? And … and his sword, and HB’s head. It could have been anyone though, anybody on that battlefield.

He clamped his left hand tighter over his ribs and took a shaky, limping step backwards. CD brushed past him and picked up HB’s head. They glared, a stack of anger and betrayal.

“I didn’t …” he mumbled. “I got carried away.”

“So you kill your friends?” HB roared. “You wipe every player on the board out, even the Dersites, and you  kill your friends ?”

“I didn’t know it was you, alright?” he snapped.

“ You killed  everyone! You gave a regisword to a Prospitan mail-lady!”

“And why shouldn’t I have?!” He stepped forward, remembering too late that one of his knee joints was likely cracked. He stumbled hard, but he was furious enough now that it didn’t matter. “They would have exiled me -  killed me \- all because they were always going to be more loyal to that stupid bitch! They didn’t deserve to live! Mindless fucking gravestuffers!” He sagged and wheezed. “I had to kill them, but I didn’t know she’d kill you, HB, she was just supposed to go for the King -”

“ Wanted to .”

“I had to fucking stop them from stopping  me !”

The Droll turned his nose up and scowled up at him. “And what about me?”

“What about you?”

Jack had never had a way with words, and death apparently hadn’t fixed that. It was the wrong thing to say -  completely the wrong thing to say - and it resulted in CD driving another kick straight into his weak knee. “ Why did I have to die ?!”

“I don’t … I don’t remember.” He blinked. “I don’t remember.”

“I did what you told me to!” The Droll handed the Brute’s head back to its rightful body, and got as much into Jack’s face as he could. “ You said kill the girl! So I did! With a big crate of shaving cream! And then you  killed me !” His voice shook and cracked. “I did a good job! I remembered what you said and I finished the job and I did it well!” He sniffed and dragged his sleeve across his tear-streaked face. “Jack I don’t understand! I did what you said and we were  friends and -”

“He ain’t our friend, CD. He never was.” The Brute caught him in the good ribs with another fist and then picked the Droll up, the little Dersite under one arm and his own head under the other. “He’s a power-hungry, traitorous asshole.”

“Guys, wait -”

“Welcome to the afterlife.” The Droll shot him a dirty look as the Brute kept walking and talking, away from Jack. “I hope you got here some way you deserved.”

“Guys …” His leg was shot, he couldn’t follow them. Just watch as they walked away. He swore. “Guys! Fuck - Fuck you both! Fuck you, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, I was acting crazy, I was prototyped I -  Guys !”

They turned the corner and disappeared from view. “I wouldn’t have killed you,” he mumbled, between gasps for air. “I wasn’t myself, I wouldn’t have killed you.”

“Hm.” A trail of cigarette smoke wound through the still air. “And would you have left your Dignitary to die?”

Jack tried to spin and find him, but he was in the shadows, or somewhere. When he spoke again, his silky voice drifted from right behind Jack. Blind spot. “Had you been yourself, Jack Noir, and not  infatuated with some  stupid player, would you have left your Dignitary to die?”

Jack didn’t try to look. He could feel the hot end of DD’s cigarette half an inch from the soft gap in carapace behind his ear. “I didn’t even know you were dead, DD.”

“I radioed you.”

“It was the prototyping -”

“ Would you have left me to die?”

“Shit, DD, you know I wouldn’t have -”

“ Then why did you ?” The cigarette caught him right in the soft spot and he squealed and tried to twist away. “You could beat the prototyping, Jack. She always did.”

“Yeah, well that fucking -”

“She beat the prototyping, and if you were half the person she was you would have been able to as well.” The cigarette withdrew, and DD shoved him forward. His knee had had enough, and dumped him to the ground with a spine-wrenching bolt of pain up his leg. He rolled onto his back and blinked up at the Dignitary, who stared down at him from the crook of his elbow. “I called you. I told you I was going to kill the dreamers. They were  children , Jack; we could have easily killed both of them.” He stepped over Jack, and dropped his cigarette butt by the other pawn’s face. “Had you showed up.”

“Draco -”

“Be seeing you around, Jack. Unfortunately.”

“DD don’t leave! You can’t leave!” He dragged himself up to sitting and kept yelling, despite the dizziness and the blood and the searing pain. What was it going to do, kill him? “I am your superior!”

The Dignitary spun on his heel and glared. “You are  dead , Jack Noir, just like everyone else. You are dead and worse, you’re a traitor.” He drew himself back up, and settled his head on his shoulders. “I suggest you familiarize yourself with the concept.”

“DD I can’t -”

“Yes. I know.” Jack waited for something else, some other snappish point, but DD just turned again and left after the other two.

“I can’t,” he mumbled, to the empty street and his tiny reflections in the droplets of his own blood. He snarled, and smeared his right hand through the blood. “I couldn’t.” And then he leaned his elbow on his good knee, and rested his head in his hand while the silence of the empty street around him pounded his eardrums. “I can’t.”


	61. Slick+Vriska, If she were his kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lucky number 12. Stabdads kidswap: what if instead of Sleuth and Kanaya because vampires, it was Dame and Kanaya because chainsaws? Or Boxcars and Nepeta because shipping? Or Sleuth and Terezi because detectives? Etc. Any parent-kid pairings you like, as long as they're switched from what they usually are! Explore whatever ones you'd like, in whatever way you'd like, I just think it'd be interesting~" - shouldhaveducked

Sometimes Slick worried about his daughter. Not worried like you thought she was out doing drugs or anything, she was too good of a kid for that, but because she seemed to enjoy the whole stabbing thing a little too much. I mean, he loved stabbing, for sure, it was a great thing and a terrific way to pass the time and/or gain valuable information but … but you don’t just  _ stab _ people because they look at you wrong, or because you think they’re weak.

Okay, well, yeah he did. But he didn’t tell them he was doing them a favor. Shit, he was  _ stabbing _ them.

“So Dad, if I stabbed them right here, right in the throat, would they bleed to death really fast or would they go really slowly?” she asked him one day, over breakfast, pointing to her own neck to demonstrate.

“Uh,” he said, because he wasn’t sure. He’d never stabbed anyone in the throat. Cut their throat, yes. Stabbed them in the face, sure. But stabbing in the throat had always just seemed sort of … needlessly inefficient. You could just take a swipe instead.

“See,” she went on, “because if they really wanted to live, they could. You’re not killing them! You’re giving them for the opportunity for personal growth.” She shoved a spoonful of cornflakes into her mouth and kept talking, spraying half-chewed cereal and milk all over the table. “It’s not fun to just kill people, right? You have to give them the chance to  improve ! Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair to them.”

He took a breath. “Vriska, you don’t stab people just because you think -”

“No, Dad, I know! But do you see what I’m saying?” She looked down her nose, a little shocked. “Honestly, I know you don’t just haul off and stab people, really Dad.”

Slick stood up, and absconded to his office, shooting her a wary look over his shoulder. “Sure you do, kiddo. Sure you do.”

At the table, after the door shut, Vriska just beamed into her cereal. “Of course I do. You have to have a reason.” She watched after him, as the door to the office snapped shut. “A good reason.”

Slick took some time to himself, playing the piano and looking through heist plans. He must have dozed off, because when he woke up - and whatever time that was, he really didn’t know - he was on the couch, and the plans were still spread out around him.

Of note, he was also in gut-wrenching pain. Mostly, in his eye. The good one.

Previously good one, anyway. At the moment, that didn’t appear to be the case.

Also of note, Vriska was on his right. “Hey Dad!” He felt up across his face, and almost screamed at the thin slice of metal that was there.

One eye. And now there was a fucking  knife  in it. 

She curled up against his side, and hugged him hard. “See? I know you can’t just  stab people . You have to do it when it’s going to make them  better .” He might have scooted away, but his body didn’t seem to be interested in doing much else besides trembling. “And this’ll make you better, Dad; I know it.

“You have to challenge people; that’s what my teacher always says! You never know how good you can be until you’re challenged to be your best.” She sighed, contented. “And the other gangs just don’t challenge you anymore, Dad. It’s so easy, right? That’s what you said to Droog!”

He was cold now, probably from blood loss, mostly, but partially out of straight-up fucking terror. Shit, he should have killed her when she was a grub, he shouldn’t have let Droog talk him out of it, he shouldn’t have ever thought she was just kind of weird … “Vriska,” he rasped, and he tasted blood when he opened his mouth. “Vriska you have to get the phone and call Droog.”

She curled in closer, and he could practically hear the fucking smile in her voice. “But Dad, where’s the challenge in that?”


	62. Midnight Crew+Kids, Bowling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Uhm. Sixteen. The Midnight Crew goes bowling. They may or may not bring their kids. Long story short, Deuce does not throw the ball down the aisle, he bowls using...himself." - astharoze

You’re not 100% sure who suggested this, but it is literally the stupidest idea you have ever been forced to participate in. You were  _ busy _ tonight … Alright, not  _ busy _ busy, but you had things you wanted to do! You wanted to work on that auto-responder that you hoped would put Strider’s bro’s to shame, you wanted to finish the code for that virus that would blow the shit out of Strider’s computer in case you couldn’t get your auto-responder to work, you wanted to re-wire your server hardware …

Your dad didn’t get that though. He never does. He just figured it mean you were having fun with your “little hobbies”, but you weren’t really doing anything. So he loaded you up into the Robin and took you down to the bowling alley, in such a fit of excitement that he rolled the car twice. He usually only does it once, when you’re pulling out of the driveway.

It didn’t help your mood, having to get out of the car just to flip it back over  _ twice _ .

And now that you’re here it’s not getting better. Karkat’s doing what he can to calm you down, you guess, and Aradia looks like she  wants to, but every time the two of you get closer than six inches apart her dad’s  _ right there _ and he’s fucking  _ looming _ . God, you hate him.

You’re not even past the ‘pick name’ screen. You’re twitching with annoyance, because you could have everyone’s stupid names programmed in there in a second, but Karkat’s dad has to do it because he  always has to be in charge and he types like an old man, two fingers just poking randomly. “So, what, do I just hit enter at the end or what the fuck is the deal with this?”

Tavros’s dad leans over his shoulder and points to something. “No, I think you hit that button with the arrow on it, I think it means next.”

“Dad just let Sollux do it,” Karkat snaps, arms crossed over his chest. “God this is taking  _ forever _ .”

“Shut up, it ain’t like you got somewhere to be.”

“ _ Actually _ -”

Slick glared. “I’m your dad and I say you ain’t got anywhere to be, alright?”

Karkat sighs, rolls his eyes, and flops into the chair next to you. “Sorry man, I tried.” He drops his voice, half-whispering. “I’m with you though: the sooner we get outta here, the better.”

“Whothe idea even  _ wath _ thith?”

“You dad and Boxcars came up with it, I think.”

You sigh. Of course.

It’s twenty minutes before Slick manages to enter everyone’s name, which isn’t bad. Droog only has to keep him from driving a blade through the touchpad once, which is even better. You’re relieved when you’re all allowed to finally start bowling, not particularly because you like bowling, but because it means you’re going to be out of here soon. That, and because giving large, heavy objects to the Midnight Crew meant that Diamonds Droog was distracted, which meant that you  _ can _ sneak closer to Aradia, at least for brief moments.

“If Daddy catches you,” she warns you, when your fingers lace through hers. She tries to look stern, but you just stare at her over the tops of your glasses and she giggles behind her soda. “Come on, Sol, it’s your dad’s turn, you ought to pay attention - Oh.  _ Oh _ . You  _ really _ ought to pay attention, Sollux.”

You’ve known your dad long enough, and Aradia long enough, to whip around at breakneck speed when she says that. “Oh GPI,” you half-gasp, but before you can  _ actually _ say anything, your dad takes a running leap down the lane, landing in a neat somersault and skidding down the well-greased lane straight into the pins, laughing all the way.

Droog manages to get “NO, Clubs -” out, before your dad takes his leap of faith. “Clubs you’re … you’re going to ruin your suit,” he finishes, but it’s half-hearted. He sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose, and spins on the rest of you. “Stop laughing,” he snaps at Slick and Boxcars, “it only encourages him.”

“Hey Dad,” Karkat snickers, “you know you might be shor -”

“Finish that sentence an’ I’ll stick a knife in your leg, kid.”

Droog ignores their bickering and crosses over to you and Aradia. You manage to drop her hand quickly enough - you think, but with Droog you’re never sure - and look attentive. Your sudden good posture serves you well, because at least you’re sitting up straight then, when Droog grabs the back of your shirt collar and bodily lifts you up, placing you on your feet an arm’s length away from Aradia.

“You will wait here for your father,” he informs you, in a tone that brooks no argument. “Aradia, we are leaving; this is absolutely ridiculous.”

“But Daddy -”

Slick’s at his side then, Karkat in tow. “Yeah, we’re outta here too; I got better shit to do. I’m workin’ on a big heist an’ -”

“You’re watching the  _ Star Wars _ marathon Dad, don’t lie,” Karkat grumbles. Slick jams his hat over the troll’s face.

“ _ Big plans _ .” He shoots you a look. “You gonna stay here an’ wait for Deuce?”

“Did I have a choithe?”

“Not really.” He looks to Karkat then. “You wanna stay?”

“I -” You shoot Karkat a look then, a desperate, pleading look. It’s not usually your thing, begging, but fuck, you’re at a bowling alley and you know your dad’s not going to want to leave, for sure not now that there are three empty player slots which means everyone gets to bowl even more, and Hearts and Tavros seem to be having a great time. “I’ll get a ride home later,” Karkat grumbles, and you nearly sag with relief.

“Thankth man,” you say, when the others leave, Aradia looking apologetically back over her shoulder. “Apprethiate it.”

“No problem,” he says, clapping you on the shoulder. The ball return spits out your dad then, coated in grease, his hat jammed so far down over his eyes he can’t see, but laughing hysterically. Karkat sighs. “But you owe me man.”

“ _ Oh _ , wow, you guys have to try that! Why are you using the balls - the other way is so much more fun!”

Karkat just looks at you as he picks up his bowling ball. “ _ You owe me _ .”


	63. Slick+Karkat, Poor parenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "25. Slick having to deal with his first panic/worry inducing parent crisis with Karkat as a little kid or grub." - Anon

You are a shit dad, and it’s time you came to terms with that.

I mean, it’s not like you’re particularly surprised. You’re shit at most things you do, unless those things are shooting Felt or robbing banks. You were pretty sure when you found those grubs, and Droog gave one to you, that you’d be shit at that too. Thing was, you hadn’t thought it would last very long; some part of you always thought the cops would step in, or some troll would finally try to claim their missing grub, and you could wash your hands of the whole thing and go back to doing the things you weren’t shit at doing.

It hadn’t happened, of course. A year went by and you fed the grub and eventually held it and got attached to it, and then it had cocooned up and re-emerged as an annoying little gray kid and you  _ still _ took care of it. Him, really. Karkat.

You hadn’t anticipated getting attached to him. It wasn’t really the kind of thing you did, besides your Crew. You used people and moved on when they didn’t meet your needs. But this … this kid was kind of using you, and you were cool with it, mostly. Which was even weirder.

And now the kid’s got you feeling  guilty , which was the weirdest thing yet. You don’t do guilt. But sitting next to his bed, with his arm all casted up and it’s your fucking fault, basically, not that you’d  _ wanted _ to do anything to him, you’re feeling just about guilty and shitty enough to sulk off for a few weeks and crawl into a bourbon bottle.

Droog keeps telling you it isn’t your fault. He’d have been more hurt, Droog says, if you hadn’t grabbed his arm. It’s just a broken arm, it’ll heal. And that’s all true, but it doesn’t make you feel any better about it.

You lean your elbows onto the bed and watch the kid. Outside, the cops are talking to the nurse and the doctor. They’re checking your story. You’re pretty sure it’ll check out, not that you know about this shit, but the suspicion from the medical assholes had melted as soon as they looked at the x-rays. ‘Consistent’ was the operative word, apparently, and they all nodded and agreed and let you back near your kid while someone else glopped casting shit on his arm.

He’d been quiet through the whole thing, which sort of made it worse. Like he got it. He was two years old, he  _ couldn’t _ have got it, but he just curled up on your lap with that stupid cast on and fell asleep like he totally fucking forgave you or whatever, and he slept the whole time you carried him up to the room they told you to wait in until the cops were satisfied. Like he still trusted you and didn’t hate you for being a shit dad.

Which you are.

The tiny little part of you that’s always coolly logical - your inner Droog - thinks it’s hilarious that you feel worse about this than you did about exiling your home country’s monarch. After all, Droog’s right; it’s just a little break, not even something they really  _ needed _ to cast, they said, but better safe than sorry in a kid that’s just learning to walk.

You should probably have adopted that theory yourself, in retrospect. ‘Course, he’s only 2, it’s not too late to start. Trouble is, you’re not sure how to do that. You’ll have to ask Droog - he keeps his kid wrapped in bubble-wrap, practically. You’re not even sure she’s ever scraped her knees.

Not like your kid.

You groan, and let your eyes close. God, you are shit at things like this.

“Dad?” You look up; you must have woken him up somehow. Maybe the groaning was a bit much. He smiles at you. “Dad.”

“What, kid?”

He looks at you, and then he looks to his arm. His expression goes puzzled, like he can’t quite figure out what to do all casted up like that, and then he just shrugs it off and grabs your hat, setting it on his own head. It’s too big - way too big - and he laughs, the bottom half of his teeth just showing.

“Hat,” he says, proudly, before he starts giggling again.

“Yeah, you got it: hat.” You reach for it, but your hand stops halfway. It’s all the opportunity the kid needs to grab your arm and latch on like a stupidly cute little leech. “Fuck, ow.” He giggles again and keeps gnawing on your coat. At least it’s not your hand. “You’re a weird kid.”

He uses the cast to push the hat up, and flops around in the bed a little, so he’s kind of laying on your arm. “Weird,” he says, and beams at you. “Dad.”

“Yeah,” you agree, wriggling your arm around as much as you can so it doesn’t go numb under his slight weight; you’re right-handed, you’d hate to have to face the cops without your right arm, probably wouldn’t help your case at all. “You got a weird one, kid. Sorry.” Your fingers brush against the cast, and you sigh. “Real sorry.”

He pokes at the cast himself for a minute; he probably still doesn’t really get it. The guilt twists in your gut again, but before you have a chance to really get into another self-loathing session he’s wrapped around your arm once more. “Sorry,” he repeats.

“Yeah, kid. You got it.”

He pulls the hat down, off his head, and clutches it to his chest. “Dad,” he yawns, his eyes pinching shut. “Sorry.” And then he giggles sleepily. “Weird.”

“You think?”

He sighs, real tired - it’s late anyway, and he kind of had a big afternoon, you guess - and squeezes the hat a little tighter. You see what he’s doing, and do him one better, propping your feet up on the bed and carefully setting him in your lap. His eyes flicker, almost open, but instead he just mutters “Dad” and curls up into your ribs, before he falls asleep curled up around you and your hat.


	64. Team Sleuth, Saving the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "22. Team Sleuth saves the day." - Anon

Pickle Inspector was sitting in his office when the phone rang. He jumped, partially because the phone never rings, and it took him by surprise, but also because he was fiercely focused on his crossword puzzle, which was on top of his phone. The pencil and paper and Inspector went flying backwards, all three hitting the floor at the same time, as dictated, the Inspector knew, by the Law of Conservation of Energy. Actually, technically, that wasn’t correct, since they were not operating in a closed system, and there was air resistance present, so really  _ he _ should have hit the floor first, followed by the pencil, followed by the newspaper, unless the newspaper folded in half or made itself thinner in which case …

The phone was still ringing. He answered it, almost managing to stammer out a traditional greeting, rather than a question about the possibilities of living in a vacuum.

“It’s Sleuth. Why do you want to live in your vacuum?”

“N-no, it’s not that, n-not like the cleaning vacuum, the kind without air r-resistance or -”

“Never mind, Inspector, I don’t have time, just buy whatever vacuum you want and we’ll write it off as a business expense.” There was a scuffle on the other side of the phone. “Listen, we’re in kind of a jam and we could use your help -”

“W-what? Oh. Uh, what kind of p-problem, Sleuth?”

“ _ Goddammit _ , PI, that’s not fucking funny.” Another scrambling on the other end of the line. “I’m at Regicide with Slick, and there’s some stupid puzzle shit and could you bring AD?” PI winced when he heard Slick screaming something about elf tears in the background. “Hang on -  _ just pee on ‘em, that usually makes ‘em cry _ !”

“ _ What the fucking hell is the matter with you _ ?” PI heard Slick snarl.

“Anyway, PI, I could really use you! The door’s locked from the outside, no keys are working, I don’t know why the fuck the elves are here and … you know what? You’ll see when you get here. Bring AD.” The line went dead.

“Oh.” The Inspector frowned at the handset for a minute. “Rude.”

By the time he got to Regicide, AD in the passenger seat of his Corolla, the stupid puzzle shit - or, perhaps, the stupid Slick shit - had escalated to the point of a minor structural fire. “Oh dear,” he murmured, while AD kicked the door open and stomped across the sidewalk to the front door, which was steadfastly resisting the inferno.

“Can’t leave his dumb ass alone for ten seconds, can we?” Ace griped, rolling his sleeves up. “Alright, let’s get this done -”

“I d-don’t think that’s terribly wise,” PI said, stepping up behind him, likewise rolling his sleeves up and taking in the bars of light criss-crossing the front of the door. “Hm. Interesting. But if we apply the basic laws of thermodynamics, and the fact that light acts as both a wave and a particle …”

AD rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.” He seized the edges of the door and yanked at it, throwing his back into it. All that was accomplished, ultimately, was that AD jumped back a few seconds later, patting out the small fires that had started on his hands.

“No, I didn’t think that would work,” PI muttered, distracted, his chin in his hand. “But perhaps if - let’s see, the blue waves are shorter than the red waves, but the yellow particles are going to scatter both of them …”

He worked at the puzzle for another hour, apparently unconcerned by the fact that the building was actively on fire. When all the shafts of light flared green, just for a second, he stepped back, and grinned. The door clanked open. Seconds later, a very singed, charred, and ash-covered crowd of people bolted out, screaming. At the back of the pack, Spades Slick and Problem Sleuth staggered into the cool night air.

For a minute, PI was concerned. They were hanging off each other, and Sleuth was limping, but then he heard their conversation. “- Can’t believe you tried to  _ pee out _ the entire fucking building. I mean, shit, not bad enough my piano was on fire, then you had to  _ piss on it _ -”

“It helped, didn’t it?”

“ _ It did not help _ !”

Sleuth stopped and crossed his arms, shedding bits of charred trenchcoat onto PI as he did so. “Well you stabbed me in the fucking leg; how did that help?”

“It kept you from pissing on the rest of my club!” He shot AD and PI a look before jerking a thumb toward them. “Weren’t for these assholes, we’d probably all be burning to death to the smell of your fucking urine.”

AD’s nose wrinkled. “ _ Goddammit _ , Sleuth. Fuckin’ disgusting.”

“ _ Right _ ? Don’t punch me, I know fuckin’ you agree.” He shot the three of them a look before limping back into the flaming shell of his club. “Anyway, thanks. And Sleuth, you can stay the hell away from me until you either stop with the weird puzzle shit, or get your ass housebroken.”

The door swung shut behind him. And then fell off its hinges in a flaming heap.

Sleuth brushed his sleeves off; quite literally, in the case of his left sleeve, which hit the ground in a sad little heap of charcoal. “Well, gentlemen, another job well done.” A bit of his hat flaked off and drifted to the ground. “Should we pose as a team? Day saved, and all?”

“Hell no.” AD was already back at the Corolla, slinging himself into the passenger seat. “You smell like piss.”

“Oh.” Sleuth faltered for a second, but he rebounded quickly. “Pose in the car?”

PI hurriedly jumped across the roof of his sedan, folding himself into the driver’s seat and locking the doors before Sleuth could react. “I - I would r-rather you not get in,” he said, keeping the window rolled up enough to prevent Sleuth from getting a hand in. “A-Ace has a p-point.”

“Aw, come on.  _ Guys _ .” His arms fell to his sides as the car pulled away and vanished around the corner. He scowled. “ _ Rude _ .”


	65. Deuce/Ms Paint, First date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "26! Clubs Deuce and Ms Paint are on a ~date~" - gluethegrue

Your name is Clubs Deuce, and right now you are thanking your lucky stars that you have a great friend like Hearts! Without Hearts you never would have known to go to a nice restaurant like this - you had been planning on going to the Steak N’ Shake, but as soon as you said that to Hearts he got this look on his face like he gets sometimes when one of the Crew get hurt and he started shaking his head and his voice got all shaky like he was trying not to yell and …

And anyway, he ended up calling a really nice restaurant on the strip, and he got you a reservation! He also talked Droog into letting you use his car, so you didn’t have to drive your car. He said it’s not very chivalrous to make your date get out of the car and roll it back over every time you go around a turn, and besides, he said women really dig Droog’s car.

You think that’s pretty funny, because Droog …

Well.

Never mind. Droog always gets kind of mad when you laugh about that.

Anyway, your date’s going great! She was really impressed when you brought her into the restaurant, and you think maybe a little worried, but you assure her it’s fine because you own this restaurant (you think; you’re not really sure you remember which ones you own), and you tell her she can order anything she wants, even if it’s not on the menu.

“But what if they don’t have the ingredients?” she asks, and she giggles a little.

You think about that for a while. “Well I mean … well. I mean. Okay, so whenever I order off-menu I get macaroni and cheese, so I guess maybe that’s pretty easy!”

She smiles, and you flush warm when you see the way the skin crinkles on the corners of her eyes and the bridge of her nose. “I think I’ll stick to the menu,” she says quietly.

“Okay!”

She reads in silence for a while, while you give her space and think about macaroni and C4. “So you said you own this restaurant?” she asks hesitantly, after a while, looking around and toying with her necklace. It’s not a nice necklace, you think absently; pretty enough, but it’s fake. You can fix that. “The Midnight Crew owns this restaurant.”

“Yeah?” you wait. She just watches you for a minute, before she laughs again.

“Are you admitting to being a member of the nefarious Midnight Crew, Clubs Deuce?”

“What?  _ Oh _ .” You wink at her, an exaggerated gesture. “Nope.”

“Hm.” She took a sip of her martini and watched you, sidelong, the corner of her mouth quirking up even as she drank. “So you wouldn’t know anything about that awful Spades Slick fellow?”

“Nothing at all.”

“What’s his favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Mint chocolate chip,” you say, and then your mouth snaps shut. “I mean. I mean I don’t know.” You shrug. “He seems like … the type.”

“Uh huh.” She stirs her olives around in her martini. “So Clubs Deuce, since you’re not in the Midnight Crew, nor are you an infamous explosives expert, what do you do for a living?”

“I uh … I.” You think for a long time, and then you beam at her. Hearts told you how to handle this. You’re just thrilled you remembered in time. “Well, I mean, you seem to have a pretty good idea of who I am!” you say. And she laughs, she actually laughs, and puts her face in her hand.

“You’re not supposed to  _ tell _ , Clubs.” She composes herself, dabs her eyes with her napkin, and takes another sip of her drink. “But yes. Yes, I know who you are; it’s hard not to, if you read the papers.”

“Right!” And then suddenly you’re a little nervous, because most of the time when people know you’re in the Midnight Crew,  _ they _ get nervous. “Is … is that okay?”

She thinks about it. “Say this goes somewhere, alright?” You nod. “Will I have to rob any banks with you?”

“No, of course not!” You shake your head. “Not … not unless you want to, I guess.” And then you cock your head and take her in. “Do you want to?”

She laughs again. “No, no I don’t.” She eats one of her olives, and smirks at you. “Well, as long as I don’t have to rob a bank, then I think I can overlook the gang membership.”

“Good!” You beam then, and lean forward onto the table. “So say this goes somewhere,” you say and she smiles again, “I should probably know more about you!”

“Yeah.” She leans forward. “Probably.”

“So uh …” you paused, and cast your mind around for a possible topic. “So how do you feel about C4?”


	66. DD+PI, Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "23. Some exile slick and sleuth or pi and droog. Just give me some exiles gurl." - Anon

The desert has a way of killing you slowly, you think. Not quick, like an avalanche, not slow like burning to death, but  really  slow, like hypothermia, where you die in pieces, forgetting your name and your past and, eventually, everything except how hungry and thirsty and hot you are. You’re holding up a lot better than you might have expected, all things considered, but you’re losing track of how long you’ve been out here. You’re losing track of a lot.

Not as much as the man you find in the burned-out house, though. There used to be a town here, long ago, and the skinny Prospitan found his way inside one of the old dwellings before he collapsed, curled up around the bubbling mouth of a spring. You kneel next to him.

If Jack were here, he’d suggest eating him. You think about it for a minute, but then you sway a little and catch yourself on his shoulder for balance. He moans, and you draw your hand back as if you’d been bitten: his carapace is boiling hot to the touch. No wonder he’s peeled off most of his wrappings.

Well, that rules out eating him. He’s probably just overheated, but that’s not a risk you’re willing to take.

“Delegate?” he groans, and then claws at his wrappings as shivers run through his body. “Delegate?”

“Not quite,” you murmur. “Dignitary.”

He cracks an eye, and groans again, weakly turning his head away, as much as he can. “Dersite.”

“Yes.” You lean down, and push him out of the way, surprised at your own gentleness. Or maybe weakness, you think, when you lean down toward the spring and your elbows threaten to give out. The water tastes like mud and sand, but it’s water, and right now you’re satisfied with that. The Prospitan is watching you, shivering and licking his lips.

“Thirsty?” you ask. He nods. You blink.

He was too weak to move the three extra inches. Maybe you should just kill him. But then, you think critically, there’s not much meat on him for eating. He looks stringy. So instead you hook a hand over his shoulder and pull him to the spring, until it’s bubbling up into his eye. He can drink, or he can drown; you’ve done what you can. You stagger to your feet and out into the street, after the other three members of your party; they’ll want water, too.

You’re sort of distantly worried about what Jack will do when he sees the Prospitan. Try to eat him, probably. But when you get back to the house, the Prospitan’s gone. For a minute, you think you’ve found the wrong house - no way he could have moved, not in the condition he was in.

“Good find, DD,” Jack grumbles, when the Brute sets him down on shaky feet. “Way to go.”

“Yeah,” you say, distantly. “I’m gonna go check the basement for food quick.”

“Good idea, Draco!” the Droll tries to chirp, in a shaky imitation of his former self. “I sure am hungry.”

Jack’s given up with the standing thing, just laying on the sandy floor of the house. “Yeah, we know, asshole. You don’t shut up about it.”

“Well _ I am _ .” You slip away while they bicker, under the Brute’s watchful eye. The basement isn’t far, and you noticed the dragging footprints leading to the stairs. The Prospitan’s just inside the stairwell, propped against the wall and slumped across the top few stairs. It’s no cooler, but it’s out of the sun, so you guess you see the attraction. You brush past him, trying to stand up straight, trying not to look like you’re leaning on the stair rail hard enough that your claws are gouging the old wood, trying to look better than he does. You’re not sure he notices; you’re not sure he’s even living anymore.

The basement has a few cans, nothing spectacular. There’s a dead pig down there too, and you shred off the bits of the carcass that dried into jerky. You load everything up into your wrappings, and drag yourself back up the stairs. You don’t trip midway up, of course. You completely meant to lean forward on your hands and almost drop half of what you found.

He’s watching you, when you reach him at the top of the stairs. You look down, and the brief lapse in concentration is enough to trip you up again. This time, you stay down, just for a little, just to get your energy back. He ogles you as you lean back against the wall and take a bite of jerky.

When he speaks, you startle a little; his voice sounds so dry and so unused that it’s almost not recognizable as a voice at all. “I apologize for my earlier rudeness.” You blink. “I was … not myself.”

“It’s nothing,” you manage, around a mouthful of jerky. You watch him, and wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He ogles you, and he ogles the food, but he’s quiet. Eventually, you manage to struggle to your feet. The last two stairs are easier, and you’re almost ready to step out of the basement and forget about the Prospitan, when he speaks again.

“Good luck,” he says, quietly.

You turn, and stare down at him. Good luck? Did he seriously just wish you good luck?

He did. You’re not quite sure how to handle that, and you’re even more thrown by the hesitant, weak smile he offers you. But you suppose …

You pull a can of peaches of your bundle, and hand them down to him. He doesn’t even seem like he’s strong enough to hold the can, but he manages to balance it on one knee, while he scrabbles and gnaws at the top. You watch for a long minute, before holding your hand out imperiously. He looks ashamed when he hands the can back, and he clearly expects you to take the can and leave, since he can’t open it.

It’s what any good Dersite would do, really, so it’s not an unreasonable expectation. But he’s by himself, and if you were alone you wouldn’t have made it; you would have died a long time ago, probably. So you figure you’ll give him a chance, a taste of what you have with the Crew. Your teeth punch through the thin tin along the top of the can pretty easily, and you hand the can back, sticky sweet peach juice running down the sides.

He ogles you while the juice drips down over his hands, until he realizes that he’s losing valuable food and slurps as much of it as he can off the sides. Still, he never takes his eyes off you. You feel like something’s expected of you before you stagger back to the other three, so you nod, to him, and to the peaches. “Good luck.”

He smiles then, broader. “See you again, some day.”

You don’t shake your head, but just barely. You don’t say anything, of course, but you doubt it. You walk away as best you can, leaving the gangly Prospitan and his can of peaches behind.

You  _ seriously  _ doubt it.


	67. Slick+Karkat, Rigging up the lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "15! the crew and kids go out for a winter activity like ice skating or putting up lights or some like that." - flyingbeds

When Karkat left the house that morning, he was pretty sure it was for the best. Slick had come home last night - more like early morning, really - with Sleuth, and the two of them had been completely trashed. On top of that, Karkat had heard the words ‘winter light things’, which absolutely  _ boded _ . So he’d called Aradia up first thing in the morning, and suggested going shopping for Solstice gifts for their friends. She’d agreed that it was a great idea, and Karkat grabbed the keys to the car and bolted out of the house before Slick so much as stirred.

He’d been right that it would be a good idea: what he came home to was just short of homicide. Short of homicide, because one of the perpetrating parties was stuck up in a tree, and the other was absent from the premises. 

He strolled over to the base of the tree and looked up the trunk. It wasn’t a very long way, but it was long enough that jumping was probably a bad choice. “What’re you doing in a tree, Dad?” he asked, hands in his pockets.

“Shut the fuck up and get the ladder,” Slick snapped. When Karkat failed to leave, he snapped his teeth at him. “It was a terrible fucking idea to start with, and then fucking Sleuth took the goddamn ladder away because he has to be an asshole about everything. Now go get the goddamn ladder back.”

“Who’s idea was it to put you in a tree?” The sun broke free of the clouds for a second, and light glittered off the string of lights. “ _ Oh _ . Solstice lights. I get it. You didn’t stab him, did you?”

“I threw a couple sticks but it’s not fucking important. Get the damn ladder.”

Karkat shrugged, and turned away before Slick could catch him smirking. “Be right back.”

They didn’t really have storage - not in a townhouse in the middle of the city where a basement was a rarity granted to the privileged few. But Karkat knew where the ladder typically  was (leaned up against the house, under the back stairs), and where it might be, and, after a good solid ten minutes of searching all the possibilities and even most of the unlikely places (the unused room upstairs, for example, which was packed full of souvenirs from various robberies and not much else), concluded that wherever the ladder was, it wasn’t on the grounds. He stepped back outside into the backyard, and addressed his dad, who was still clinging to an upper limb of the tree. “It’s not here.”

“The fuck you mean, it’s not here?”

Karkat shrugged. “I dunno, I can’t find it. There’s no ladder here.” He made to go back inside. “I’ll call Droog I guess -”

“ _ Don’t call that asshole _ .” 

Karkat called him anyway, because he knew Droog had a ladder and Slick was probably going to be completely insufferable until he was back to solid ground, and Karkat didn’t feel like dealing with it. “He’s where?” was Droog’s first question.

“Stuck in a tree.”

“… Five minutes.”

It was exactly five minutes before Droog was standing, sans ladder, under the limb Slick was perched on. “So you threw some sticks at him and he took the ladder and left?”

“ _ Apparently _ .”

“Hm.” Droog smirked at Slick, and then shrugged. “Can’t say I blame him.”

“Yeah, well fuck you too, asshole.” He made to slide down the branch, perhaps to get to a lower limb, when his foot slipped. Karkat wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Slick squeak before, and he turned away and disguised his sudden urge to laugh hysterically as a debilitating coughing fit. “Just go get your fucking ladder.”

“Didn’t bring it.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“I mostly just wanted to see you stuck in a tree.” Droog raised an eyebrow and fiddled with one of his cufflinks. “I have absolutely no intention of actually helping you.”

“You -” Slick started, before his speech devolved into unintelligible growling and snarling. “ _ I will end you _ .”

“I’d very much like to see you tr - AUGH.” Karkat had seen, in nature videos, the sinewy grace of leopards pouncing their prey from tree limbs. The way they fell like gravity was their personal attendant, ushering them to the fragile spines of the gazelle just so. Spades Slick falling out of a tree onto Diamonds Droog was absolutely nothing like that, although, admittedly, the intent to kill was probably the same. “ _ Slick what the fuck _ ,” Droog snarled, getting a foot between himself and the smaller man and kicking Slick away. He scrambled up, and looked at the dirt and mud on his suit with something like a mixture of boiling rage and soul-crushing distress. “ _ This was new _ .”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call the fuckin’ whaaambulance for you later.” Slick got up and started to brush himself off, before he winced and gingerly held out his wrist, which was twisted in a completely unnatural direction. “Ah, shit.”

“Fuck you, serves you right,” Droog snapped, shrugging his jacket off and looking mournfully at the muddy streaks down the back. “They’ll never get this out.”

“Truly a fuckin’ tragedy worthy of a Shakespearean epic.” Slick limped past Karkat, trailing bark and clods of dirt. “You’re on your own tonight, kid; I’m taking the car.”

Karkat blinked and spun to face his dad’s retreating back. “Where’re you going? Shouldn’t you get your wrist fixed?”

“Later.” He wrenched the door open with his metal arm and paused, looking back at the other two. “Gotta go see Sleuth first.” Karkat opened his mouth to protest that particular idea, but Slick just smiled in a not-very-nice-at-all way, and waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t even worry about it: I’m just goin’ to get the ladder back.”


	68. Spades Slick, Losing things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "25. Slick loses his prized special edition of Terrier Fancy. The only one with his name on it. He goes on a mission to track it down before somebody else finds it." - Anon

Ever since that night at Felt Mansion, when you lost your Crew and got shot into this shithole of a timeline, you’ve pretty much been a disaster. Sure, part of it was dealing with the fact that you’re down an eye and an arm, and then part of it was learning that in this timeline you and your Crew died ages ago, and a big part of it was lying to people that you  _ hadn’t _ (but weren’t you full of holes? They had to dredge the river five times - !), but mostly it was just a fucking delightful combination of all of those things, plus the fact that in this timeline your favorite green assholes still existed, and that  _ huge bitch _ was still rattling around, making your life hell.

But this, this was just the icing on the fuckin’ cake.

You’re scrabbling through your chest, and all your cards - you don’t keep it doubled, you know you don’t keep it doubled but you just  _ have to check _ \- but it’s not there. It’s gone, you’re not sure where it is, GPI where did you leave it,  _ why did you have to write your name on it _ , stupid stupid stupid …

It’s your prized edition of Terrier Fancy and normally, you would just tell yourself that it could be anyone’s. But it can’t, because  you were fucking stupid or drunk or whatever enough to write ‘SPADES SLICK’ on the first page. 

You scramble through whatever’s left in the hideout - not a lot, not since the four of you died - with your heart pounding in your throat and your ears ringing. It’s not in the common room, not in the little kitchen. You don’t bother looking in Clubs’ old room; you went in there once, right after you got here, and the sheer smell of gunpowder was overpowering enough that you haven’t been in there since. It wouldn’t be in Hearts’ room, either, for about the same reason, except instead of gunpowder it’s dried rose petals, in that case.

You push the door to Droog’s room in and start rooting through the papers on the desk, the books on the shelves, everything. It’s not there, which means it’s not in the hideout.  _ Fuck _ .

Alright, re-trace your steps, mentally. When did you last have it? You think back, past the blank spot that was last night, and yes, you had it yesterday afternoon. You went into your battle chest for a bunch of knives to knock off some smarmy asshole at one of your favorite bars, and you had to stash it real fast under a yellowing sheaf of useless heist plans, written up for another timeline and another Crew. So it was in the chest, then, unless it fell out before you left the bar …

No, no you made sure to get the entire deck and everything you owned, plus the bourbon you were drinking, before you left. So it was with you after that. But then your memory fuzzes out, gets dimmer, and eventually fades into blackout.

But you didn’t have it out at any point until then, you’re sure of it. It was safely in your battle chest the whole night, until you sat down at the bar at Quatro’s and bought a bottle of bourbon just for you.

So Quatro’s maybe, but there’s no telling if you went home after that. You probably did, you think, judging by your state this morning. Your carapace was smooth, nothing marking it up, really, other than the usual nicks and dings that had been there since your last serious fight. Which meant you didn’t  _ get _ in a fight last night, which meant your probably drank at the bar until you couldn’t keep your eye open, and the Prospitan that ran the place called a cab for you. S’why you like the place, really; the barkeep’s a decent guy; rather have you in a cab on the way home than heaving your guts out across the sidewalk in front of his place. 

You could call him, you think, but there’s a part of you that would rather die than do that. The fuck were you supposed to ask, anyway? “Anybody leave any magazines at your place last night? Perhaps fucking  _ obsessed _ with cute little noses and wiry fuckin’ fur and those pointy ears and the little tails and -”

You pull up short before that train of thought has a chance to go to the end of the line. Not only is it redoubling your levels of potential embarrassment, it’s kind of upsetting you that you can’t just pull out the magazine and relax with the picture on page 62 of the Jack Russell puppies frolicking. You fuckin’ love that picture.

You drop onto Droog’s bed amidst the unmade covers - they were made when you found the place, but since you started sleeping there they’ve been perpetually messy - and pull your hat off, running your hand over your head, your fingers idly tracing the old scars that your shell never quite manages to fill in. Too many knocks in the head, you think. Too many blows to the head, too many drinks, and no Crew to watch you.

Fuck, you could  _ really _ use that picture of the puppies right now.

But there is no picture, because some asshole probably has your magazine, and he’s probably laughing with all his fuckin’ friends about it. You groan, and flop back onto the mattress. The springs don’t  _ gloink _ like they do on your mattress, because this is Droog’s mattress and you can’t imagine he would have ever stood for that kind of nonsense, even if he was a weird alternate timeline Droog.

Absently, you pull the blankets around you. They still sort of smell like Droog, even after all this time. No surprise: that asshole smoked so much you think the smell might actually be embedded  _ in the timeline _ . Whatever though, doesn’t matter really, as long as it helps you relax. It kind of makes you sad, too, because it’s all just memories in this timeline. You pull the blankets around your shoulders a little tighter, and wriggle around just so, just to see if the mattress springs will squeak at all. They don’t. Which is pretty typical of Droog; he never let you get away with things you wanted just because, either.

Well, you guess that’s it. If your magazine was at Quatro’s, which you think it probably was, it’s long gone by now. Someone has it, and they’re looking at it, and they’re laughing their fuckin’ ass off at you, and you’ll never be able to show your face in your city again. Fuck them.

No point in leaving the hideout until later on, you decide then, because your head’s still pounding from last night now that the adrenaline has faded out, and Droog’s bed is surprisingly comfortable, just like time with him always was. You hook your fingers around the pillow and pull it toward you. And then you stop, because paper crinkles. You know that paper.

The first thing you grab is the pillow, and you jam it under your head until your neck isn’t aching, and your nose if full of the old smell of Cuestick Specials. And then you grab the magazine, and flip through it to page 62, until your heartbeat slows down, and your breathing gets deeper, and you fall asleep with puppies and Diamonds in your head.


	69. Midnight Crew, Ikea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "26. The Midnight Crew goes to Ikea. Droog loads up on Swedish Fish, Boxcars accidentally breaks some furniture, Deuce marvels at bright-colored things, and Slick thinks this is the stupidest heist they've ever planned. (omg what even is this I'm sorry this is the dumbest prompt ever *hides in the corner of shame*)" - queuecontinuum

This is the stupidest heist you’ve ever planned. Probably, you think, because  _ you _ didn’t plan it: Clubs did. This is the last fuckin’ time you are going to let Clubs plan anything, ever.

The worst part is that the other three are enjoying it, presumably. You haven’t seen them since you came in the front door, anyway. You lost Clubs almost immediately when the little dumbass jumped head-first into a bin full of pillows. He was always doing that shit, and you figured if the three of you kept moving he’d catch you up eventually. But then somewhere around the kitchen displays you’d turned back to look at them and everyone was gone. So either they’d all caught up with one another and it was  _ you _ that was distracted, or the allure of flat-packed furniture was too much for even Droog.

You growl, and stalk back through the store, in search of your Crew now, rather than swiping all the shit you had planned on snatching up for the kids’ dorm rooms. It’s quiet as hell, you think, which is suspicious in and of itself. Normally those assholes couldn’t be quiet if their lives depended on it, which sometimes they do, so you’re really speaking from fuckin’ experience here.

The first thing you hear is a distant ‘wheeee’. You sprint off through the kitchen layouts, dodging past the entertainment centers and skidding up short just inside the office furniture, so you don’t crash into Deuce. He beams as he shoots by on the office chair, spinning slowly. “This is the best heist we ever been on, boss!”

Your fists clench and a tension headache starts pounding in the back of your head as you grit your teeth. “Goddammit would you fuckin’  _ focus _ ?” you snarl, grabbing the back of the chair on the next pass. Clubs shoots out of the chair and tumbles across the floor, head over heels.

“Aww, man!”

“Get over it.” He brushes himself off, and sulks over to your side. “Where’s the other two?”

He shakes his head and shrugs. “Droog wandered off a while ago, back in the living rooms. Hearts went past me a while ago, too.”

“Shit.” You shove your hands into your pockets and stalk off through the desks and the chairs. “Come on, let’s find ‘em.” He doesn’t say anything in response, but you hear his quick steps behind you, so you’re not worried he’s wandered off again. You’re just about to pass the office stuff when you hear a crash, and Clubs squeaks behind you.

“ _ Shit _ ,” you hear Hearts yell, so you pick up your pace, Clubs jogging along behind you. He’s in the next display room - beds - and he’s sprawled on the floor or, more accurately, on a bedframe that has become more intimately acquainted with the floor. A bunk-bed frame.

“Oh, cool, bunk-beds!” Clubs darts past you and shimmies up the ladder to another bed, bouncing happily on the mattress. “Great find, Hearts!”

“The fuck were you doing trying to get in a bunk bed?” you snap, as Hearts laboriously drags himself to his feet. “That shit has like, a 200 pound weight limit.”

“It looked sturdy.”

“You’re fucking stupid.” You cock your head then, although you don’t stop scowling. “You alright?” He nods. “Alright. Let’s find Droog and get what we need and get the hell outta here. You have any idea where he is?”

“He skipped everythin’ and went downstairs already, I think,” Hearts says thoughtfully, as he plucked Clubs from the top bunk and perched him on his shoulder.

“‘Cause he’s the only one with his fuckin’ head on straight,” you grumble. They don’t say anything; Hearts just falls into step behind you and tails you through the storage solutions, past the cafeteria and down the stairs. You stuff a few bags full of the shit you  _ actually _ came for - sheets and pillows and lamps and the other shit your kids had on their lists - and you look around for Droog, but he’s nowhere in sight.

“Maybe we should get them furniture!” Clubs says, hopeful, as he jumps up on one of the carts and braces himself for a ride.

“Maybe we should shut the hell up, find Droog and get out of here,” you retort. GPI, this was  _ really fucking stupid _ . Robbing a furniture store, honestly, who even  _ does _ that shit. You’re getting old; banks are too much, apparently. Fuck that. You make a mental note to rob a bank, any bank, as soon as possible. And maybe burn down a wing of Felt mansion, just because.

You don’t call out, because you’re not sure if this place has guards - probably not, since it’s a fucking  furniture store \- but it turns out you don’t need to. Droog appears out of fuckin’  _ nowhere _ and claps a hand on your shoulder. You jump, and spin to look at him, and then notice that the hand on your shoulder is trembling.

“You alright?” you ask, watching him carefully. He smiles, and that’s how you know something’s really fucked up.

“Oh yeah fine never better just great actually did you know they have food back behind the registers? Food and coffee and chocolate and Swedish Fish and yeah,  _ so much Swedish Fish _ , like a hundred bags more than a hundred I don’t even know how many bags there are  _ a lot of bags _ and there are these espresso beans and they’re covered in chocolate and they’re really kind of great with the Swedish Fish and sorry I didn’t go with you through the other parts but I thought maybe there would be some money in the registers and there wasn’t but then I saw all the other stuff and figured why the hell not the other two were probably busy destroying the whole damn store but it looks like you got everything anyway so it seems everything was just fine in the end which -”

“Droog,  _ stop _ ,” you snap, and he does, somehow. Your eyes narrow, and you scowl at him. “How many fuckin’ bags of those damn fish did you have? One number, and then you shut the hell up.”

“Not too many Slick just the ten and it’s not like you’re really in charge of what I eat I can have ten bags of Swedish Fish if I want plus the bag of espresso coffee beans and they have a fully-functional French press and I was thirsty halfway through the fifth bag of Fish and -”

“ _ Shut up _ .” You pinch the bridge of your nose and half-scream, half-groan. “This was the worst fucking idea any of us have ever had. And for, what? Some fucking  _ pillows _ and a couple sets of sheets and a goddamn  _ lamp _ ?” You glare at Droog. “And apparently diabetes.”

“Slick don’t be an idiot you can’t get diabetes from one small binge on Swedish Fish -”

You prod him in the chest. “ _ You _ shut up.” And then you spin to the other two, who flinch back, behind the bags of home furnishings. “ You two carry all that shit out to the van and bring it around. And then  _ I’m _ gonna drive us home and fuckin’ drink until I pass the fuck out, because you three assholes have given me a tremendous fucking headache and I’m going to kill you if I’m not intoxicated in two hours.” You snarl. “Capice?” Clubs and Hearts nod, sheepish, Clubs wringing his hands. Behind you, Droog clears his throat.

“You mind if I grab a few bags of Fish for the road because they are sort of difficult to find and -”

“Droog, shut the _fuck up_ and get out of here. And no, you can’t have any more Fish.”


End file.
